


So Close, So Far

by WhatLocked



Series: So Close [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry John, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Boys having long overdue sex, Child Abuse, Frotting, Hangover, Homophobic Slurs, Injury, Johnlock in later chapters, M/M, Meddling Mycroft, Mystrade - if you squint and tilt your head and put on rose tinted glasses, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Pining Sherlock, Racial slurs, Reference to sexual abuse, Torture, Violence, Violent Deaths, hints of depression, mention of rape, suicidal talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had let Mycroft orchestrate his fall in order to allow him to hunt out the players in Moriarty's network without detection.<br/>What Sherlock hadn't been made aware of was that Mycroft has recruited John to take out the people that Sherlock exposes.</p>
<p>Multiple POV</p>
<p>I don't own these boys but I love them like they were my own!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0 - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft is almost ready for the elimination of the members in Moriarty's network to begin. He just needs one more player on his team.

Mycroft Holmes sat in his chair and stared down at the file in front of him, neatly presented in a black folder, open, several pieces of paper stacked on top of one another in a neat little A4 pile, two and a half inches thick.  The paper was generic brand from a local office supply shop, recycled.  The font, black, 11 point, Calibri,  1.5 line spacing 2.5cm margins all the way around.  He had read this particular file multiple times, not that it had been necessary.  He had memorised it the first time.  But it was soothing to go over the facts and the plans, knowing that almost everything was in place.

He continued to study the piece of paper in front of him, as he had done for the past 7 minutes while the grandfather clock in the corner ticked away, the mechanical _tick-tocking_ echoing in the large, sparsely furnished office.  He could feel the gaze of the man across from him as he studied that one page in front of him, whilst mentally going over every fact contained in the other pages also.  The man across from him continued to gaze and although he appeared calm, patient, on the outside, Mycroft could pick up little signs that he was itching to get moving.  A hitch in breath every now and then, as if swallowing a sigh, a small twitch of the hand as if he were going to move it and then decided against it.  Minute shifting in his chair, indicating that he had been there long enough. 

Agent Oliver Jenson, 42 years of age; married, 20th wedding anniversary coming up; three children, another on the way.  Had worked for Mycroft, personally, for 12 years; loyal, trustworthy, efficient, intelligent.  Black standard issue suit; light brown hair, greying in parts and starting to recede, combed back in the same fashion he has worn since Mycroft had known him; gold wedding band, where it should be; Movado watch, one of the cheaper lines, (Fathers day present from his daughter three years ago, kept it out of sentimental reasons.) on his right wrist; faint outline of gun under the left hand side of his jacket.

Finally, he speaks.

 “It has been nearly three months sir.  We need to move soon before all of our leads go cold.” It wasn’t an order, it wasn’t said in any way condescending.  He was just stating a fact.  A very important fact.  A fact that Mycroft was very aware of, but until every detail is _perfect_ a fact that will need to be ignored until everything _was_ perfect.

Finally Mycroft looked up from the black and white text on recycled A4 paper to his Agent.

“The first three targets have been identified.  Ideally we would be ready for infiltration in one week.  Almost everything is ready to go, we just need our shooter” he voiced almost absently.  He had been losing sleep over this point in the plan for the past week.  Mycroft never lost sleep over decisions such as these, but this particular point not only affected him, but those who were left closest to him.  He knew what he wanted but for once in his career he was not sure if he would be able to have it and he would not be happy with less.

Jenson obviously interprets his vagueness as uncertainty for an ideal candidate. “The man in question needs to be a steady shot – you’ll want your best shooter, no morals.  Women and essentially children are targets.  You need to be able to trust them one hundred and ten percent.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose just the slightest bit.  He inhaled.  “Indeed” he agreed on the exhale.

“My first pick would be Sallows, sir, Winchester a close second.” Again, Jenson was under the assumption that Mycroft was unsure who to employ for this particular task.  He couldn’t have been more incorrect.  Mycroft knew  _exactly_ who the man for the job was. 

He had made up his mind.  

The subject would be engaged and Mycroft would not take no for an answer.  

“Hmm, no, I think I might have a freelance in mind for this one.”

Mycroft didn’t need to look up to see the look of indignation on his agents face. “Are you not happy with our men’s abilities, sir?” Mycroft also didn’t miss the slight annoyed tone to his voice, which Jenson tried very hard to cover.  Mycroft couldn’t blame him.  Jenson did vet and train all of the men under him, personally.

Mycroft stood up and made his way over to the side cupboard.  “Oh, no, on the contrary.  I am confident that every agent you have trained would be able to carry out this assignment with one hundred percent accuracy, their abilities are not my concern” he assured Jenson as he poured them both a whisky.

Mycroft walked back to the desk and took in the frown on Jenson’s face as he placed a crystal tumbler in front of him.  “Sorry sir, are you saying that you do not trust our agents?”

“Not at all, Jenson” Mycroft sighed.  “I have no doubt that they are one hundred percent loyal.”

Jenson’s frown deepened. “Then what seems to be the problem sir?”

Mycroft took a sip of his whisky, swirling the glass gently before placing it back on the desk in front of him.  “As you said so yourself.  I want someone who is one hundred _and ten_ percent trustworthy.  Someone to whom no bribe would be high enough, who has no weakness that can be used against him.  Someone who is happy to stay ignorant to the facts that I don’t want them to know.  Someone with nothing to lose.”

Jenson’s look of indignation turned to one of something softer.  If Mycroft didn’t know any better he would have thought that it was a look of pity.  “We all have something to lose sir" his agent responded softly.

Mycroft closed the black folder in front of him, hiding the memorised stack of papers from view and moved it to the right hand side of his desk.  Underneath was another black folder, this one not even half as thick.  “Not all of us” he murmured, opening the folder.   “Some of us have already lost it.”

“Sir?” Now Jenson looked slightly confused.

 “I know just the man for this mission.” Mycroft informed the agent across from him as he slid the top few papers of the file to the side.  Underneath was a surveillance photo of John Watson.


	2. 1 - Recruiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft employs John's help in bringing down Moriarty's network, but doesn't quite fill him in on all of the details.

John stepped out in to the cool autumn afternoon and tugged his jacket tighter around his body.  Despite the warmth of the clinic he was glad to be out of there.  His first day on the job and he already detested it.  It was routine, uneventful…dull.  Runny noses, piercings gone wrong, pregnancies, haemorrhoids, foot fungus. He already knew that tomorrow would be the same and he was already dreading it.  His work colleagues were friendly enough, but they gave him that look every time he walked into the room.  The look that said, ‘ _I heard what happened.  You are so brave for carrying on_.’  He hated that look, with their wide, sympathetic eyes, and the small smile that was never happy, just pitying.  It was horrid.

Three patients had asked him, “Are you _that_ Doctor John Watson?” (Because London must be full of so many Doctor John Watson’s.)  Each time he had denied being _that_ Doctor John Watson because he didn’t want _that_ pitying look and because telling an octogenarian to fuck off would, at best, get him a stern warning.  Punching her would definitely get him fired.  So no, as far as his patients were concerned he was not _that_ Doctor John Watson.

So he stepped out of the warm, comfortable office and into the chilly late afternoon air and headed towards his flat, ignoring the way his left foot dragged, just a little bit and wrapping a soft, warm, blue scarf around his neck as he went.  Most people didn’t think anything of him wrapping that particular scarf around his neck, but a few, some of the ones who knew him, but didn’t really know him, gave him another sort of pitying look.  The sort that said ‘ _You poor soul.  You are just a suit made of human skin away from the loony bin.’_   That look didn’t bother him as much because the people who threw it his way were not worth the time of day.  So he wrapped the scarf around his neck and looped it, so it couldn’t accidentally fall off.

Molly had given him the scarf at the morgue the day Sherlock…fell.  He had wanted the coat as well but she told him that it was too damaged, and he hadn’t wanted to make a bigger scene than he already had so he took the scarf and had left. On the way home from St Barts he thought it was lucky that it had never got any blood on it, therefore it wouldn’t need washing and would therefore retain the smell of Sherlock.  Once he got home, and had woken up from the medically induced slumber, (courtesy of Greg’s _comforting_ cup of tea), he found that he couldn’t handle the smell.  It smelt too much of him and it was painful.  He had thrown the scarf onto Sherlock’s bed and slammed the door shut.  That is where it had stayed for two weeks and then John had panicked because he could no longer remember exactly what Sherlock smelt like.  So he went and retrieved the scarf and had since taken to wearing it whenever he left the flat.  Whenever he wasn’t wearing it he would place it under Sherlock’s pillow to keep the scent lingering.  Another two weeks later he had decided he needed to move out of Baker Street.  He wasn’t moving on.  So he found another place to stay.  It was a boring flat with nosy neighbours who had judgemental stares.  It was hateful, but it was affordable and he took the scarf with him.  Not that he told anyone, but whenever he wasn’t wearing the scarf it was sealed in a plastic bag hoping to keep that scent lingering just that bit longer.  He knew it wasn’t sane but in the grand scheme of things trying to keep a scarf to smell like its original owner wasn’t that much of a dip into a mental breakdown. 

Three months had passed since the Richard Brook incident and John was still grieving.  He was getting better though.  It would help if he didn’t keep thinking he saw Sherlock everywhere.  But he had made the decision to move on, so in order to move on he had moved out taking nothing of his life with Sherlock except for the scarf, the violin and the skull.  Everything else had been left to Mycroft to sort out.  John sneered as the name formed in his head.    

After Sherlock’s death, money had been placed into his account, but he didn’t want Mycroft’s guilt money.  The bastard had sold his brother out.  There was no price to fix that.

John walked the final two blocks to his flat and made his way upstairs. There were twenty three.  Six more than there used to be.  He fumbled with the key in the lock and finally getting the damned thing open he flicked the light switch.  He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the sight before him, but he was, and he was angry.  There was Mycroft fucking Holmes, umbrella and all, sitting in HIS chair.  The very one that John had spent the last seven weeks conforming to the shape of his backside.  It hadn’t been easy.  The cushion was hard and ungiving, but in the end it had been broken in and now it was now formed to John’s body.  Not as comfy as the one back at Baker Street, but then again that was in another life. 

John glowered at Mycroft.  If that bastard had made his chair uncomfortable, then so help him, John could not be held accountable for what would happen.  There was only so much a man could take before he snapped and to be honest, John was surprised he hadn’t met his fill yet.

Shutting the door behind him with a bit more force than strictly necessary John stood against it, arms folded defensively across his chest. 

 “You do know it is polite to wait until the occupant is home and then wait to be invited in?”

Mycroft observed John for a few seconds and then gave him a tight, condescending smile.  John fought the urge to clench his fist. “I didn’t want to give your neighbours reason to talk” the man in _John’s_ chair said, as if he were doing John a great favour of stopping gossiping neighbours.

John continued glaring at Mycroft.  “People do little else” he said flatly.

“Yes, I guess they do” Mycroft offered with a sharp inhale.

John decided that he wasn’t going to stand here and play whatever mind fuck game that Mycroft had on his agenda.  Sherlock was no longer apart of his life, (anyone’s life), anymore, therefore neither was Mycroft. “Why are you here Mycroft?  I have nothing to say to you and you have nothing I want.” John didn’t keep the seething hate from his voice.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he looked over John again.  That look, the one that told John that Mycroft knew all of his dirty little secrets, had annoyed John three months ago.  Now it just pissed him off.  “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss that just yet, Doctor Watson.”

“I can assure you, Mycroft, you have _nothing_ that I want” John spat, his stance unconsciously widening as his brain prepared for battle.

A small smile lit Mycroft’s face. “Oh, but I think I do.”

John stared at Mycroft, a frown descending on his face as he struggled to keep his temper from rising.

Obviously noting the tension roiling inside John, Mycroft continued.  “Sit down John.  I have a proposition for you, and there is really not a lot of time to…”

 “Then I suggest you save what precious time you do have and just leave because I really couldn’t care less about what you have to say despite what you think.” ‘ _How dare he?_ ’ John seethed as he cut Mycroft off.  ‘ _Offering_ me _a seat in_ my own _flat, telling_ me _what to do.’_

Mycroft sighed and John felt a small, childish, twinge of glee that he was annoying Mycroft.

“John.  All I ask is five minutes of your time.  Then I will leave.  If you decide you want to take up my offer, you know how to contact me, if not then I promise you will not hear from me again.”

John clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, looking around his flat at anywhere that wasn’t Mycroft bloody Holmes.  He would really love nothing better than to grab the pompous twat by the scruff of his three piece suit and shove him back out through the door, really give the neighbours something to talk about, but it would be useless.  If John didn’t listen to him now he would only keep harassing John until he did.  John hadn’t missed the regular kidnappings.  He wasn’t eager for them to start again.

“Please. Take a seat” Mycroft offered again as he noted the look of resignation come over John’s face.

 “I’d rather stand” John replied, again ticked off at being offered a seat in his own home by someone who wasn’t even welcome there in the first place.

Again, Mycroft inhaled an annoyed sigh and John could practically hear him asking the unknown almighty that doesn’t exist for strength.  (John had never been an overly religious man, but after so much had been taken from him, his days as a surgeon, as a soldier and as assistant to the world’s only consulting detective, he had given up completely.)  Finally Mycroft accepted John’s stubbornness and continued to talk.

“As you know before Sherlock jumped’ John winced at how casual Mycroft sounded, like Sherlock had taken a stroll in the park, “We were trying to unravel Moriarty’s web in order to bring him down.  We were onto some very promising leads.  These leads have brought us names and places and we are now in a position to take action to continue the unravelling of the web.”

“Yeah, and that helps Sherlock how?” John was having trouble trying to figure out why, exactly, he was meant to give a shit. 

Mycroft continued, ignoring John’s anger.  “Sherlock played an integral part in obtaining the information that we needed in order to get as far as we have.  If we don’t continue to break apart his network then his work would have been for naught.  Even though Moriarty is dead he still poses as a threat.”

John couldn’t believe this man.  Was he seriously trying to use Sherlock’s death as a bargaining chip for John’s involvement in … whatever this was?  “Trying to project your guilt onto me is not going to work Mycroft.  And why are you even telling me all of this?”

“This is not about making you feel guilty” Mycroft said, looking John in the eye.  "It is about recruiting you.”

John stared at Mycroft.  And Stared.  What the fuck? How was he even supposed to react to that?

After several long seconds of silence Mycroft spoke again.   “John, I know what Sherlock told you before he jumped.  I have heard the recording of the conversation.  He wanted you to believe that he was a fraud and that was why he was jumping, but both you and I know that that is a lie.”

This drew John back into the conversation and a feeling of indignation settled over him, as it did whenever he thought of the reasons that Sherlock had claimed as an excuse to end his life. “Yeah, well, I guess we will never really know why he did it.”

“I wouldn’t say that” Mycroft answered, tracing a finger along the thin pinstripe on his trouser leg.

John was starting to feel antsy.  He knew this feeling.  He hadn’t felt since he was handcuffed to a mad bastard and running through the London streets trying to evade the cops.

Mycroft continued.  “Sherlock recorded his conversation with Moriarty.  There were three snipers and if Sherlock didn’t kill himself they were to act.”

The antsy feeling was now becoming more persistent.  “Three snipers?”

“Yes John.  One for Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, one for Mrs Martha Hudson and…”

“One for me” John finished, swallowing hard.  Silence fell over the flat.  John felt sick.  Sherlock had died because of him. 

“Two of the snipers have been caught” Mycroft informed him, either unaware or unaffected over the sudden feeling of guilt that had just come over John.  “There is still one left.”

“But he jumped” John choked out.  “They are no longer a threat.”

Mycroft unfolded his leg and stood up, looking directly at John.  “The sniper that was aimed at you was Moriartys left hand man.  He is also extremely psychologically unstable.  Now that Moriarty is dead he has stepped into head position of the network and he blames Sherlock for Jim’s death.  Since Sherlock isn’t around anymore you are the next best thing.  Sebastian Moran is…..”

John’s head snapped around at the sound of that name.

John couldn’t be sure but something flashed in Mycroft’s eye and it could have been triumph.  “I see you are familiar with the name.”

All feelings of guilt fled John and were instantly replaced by feelings of repulsion.

“Psychologically unstable is a nice way of describing him.  He was mad, a cruel sadistic sub-species of human.  He was kicked out of the army and it was all hush hushed because his daddy was rich enough to buy silence.  If you ask me they should have put a bullet in his head and left him in the desert without any form of identification.  I would gladly have been the one to do it.”

A small smile tilted the corners of Mycroft’s lips up, just a fraction. “You might still get that chance.”

John’s anger suddenly drained from his body, now replaced with a confused tenseness.  “I don’t understand.”

Mycroft’s face dropped back to impassive.  Business as usual.   “As I said, we are now in a position to start dismantling that web for good.”

 “I still don’t see how this concerns me.” John had missed so many things in the past three months but this wasn’t one of them.  This feeling of confusion, of always being two steps behind.

“We have detailed three major players so far, and are on our way to confirming more.  We could use the evidence we have to have said parties prosecuted and sent to jail, and if they were all in England we would do just that, but these people are scattered around the world, where we can’t reach them.  They are protected and even if they do stand trial they have the means necessary to walk free.  What we need Doctor Watson is a more permanent solution.”

John knew what Mycroft was saying.  Despite the amount of times Sherlock told him, he wasn’t actually an idiot, but he still couldn’t figure out why he was saying it to John, of all people.

“We want them dead Doctor Watson, but we cannot be connected to their killings in any way shape or form.  Some of these people are political figures, royalty even.  If it were found that the British government were picking them off one-by-one there would be devastating consequences.”

 “I still don’t….” John didn’t finish that sentence because it wasn’t true.  He knew exactly what Mycroft was asking.  He just needed to hear it said out loud before it would comprehend.

“You are a perfect shot John, I have read your service record.  They approached you on more than one occasion to be trained as a sniper, but you were ever the doctor first.  As you have proved, time and time again, while working with my brother you have strong morals, but are not above destroying the guilty who destroy the innocent.”

John didn’t want to hear any more. Those lives were over.  The soldier and the defender of the innocent.  “I’m not trained for this” he quickly cut in.  “I’m sure you have plenty of people not affiliated with the government who have years of experience.”

Mycroft gave a short nod of his head.  “Yes, an alarming number of candidates, but they can also be bought off.”

 “And you assume I can’t.” Even as the words left his mouth he knew that they both knew the answer to that and it was confirmed by the look that Mycroft threw his way.  The look that said ‘ _Really, John.  I think we both know better, don’t you?’_

 “John, you have the skill and mind-set that I need.  I have an abundance of confidence that you will not betray us and you have nothing to lose.  Not only that but you will be avenging the very people that took Sherlock away from you.”

John glared at Mycroft.  _The very people that took Sherlock away from you_.  He was that very person.  He gave away all of his brothers secrets to the one man that could destroy Sherlock and then let him waltz into the dragons den unprepared.  But John wasn’t going to have this argument again.  They had had it before and it hadn’t made John feel any better.

Mycroft suddenly straightened his jacket and picked his umbrella up from where it was leaning against _John’s_ chair. “Well, I believe I have used more than my allocated five minutes.  I will be off.  Think on it Doctor Watson.  I need an answer by tomorrow evening.  We cannot hold off any longer.”

And with that John was alone in his horribly drab flat.  The silence screaming all of this new found information into his head as he sat in his chair, which he decided still didn’t feel quite right.

~o~

 

Sleep eluded John that night and at five thirty in the morning he took it as a lost cause, got up and opened his laptop.  Within forty five minutes he had his resignation letter typed up.  An hour after that he was showered and dressed.  Slowly, with his letter neatly folded and encased in a plain envelope, John made his way out into the cool London morning, as the city was still waking up.  He walked to the small café three blocks away and ordered a cinnamon roll and a black coffee with an extra shot.  He was going to need all the help he could get today.  Sipping on the hot beverage he made his way the further two blocks to his place of work.  He was nearly an hour early but that was okay.  He needed to speak to his boss. 

Half an hour later John exited the building.  Since his resignation was effective immediately Quinten didn’t see any sense in him staying for the remainder of the shift.  Well, that is what he had told John, but John knew better.  Quinten was just really pissed off and didn’t want to see John anymore.  It had taken him forever to find a good doctor that worked well and could do all hours and although John hadn’t been super eager to take the job, he had still been exactly what Quinten had been after and had come with excellent references, although John didn’t know why.  Every job he had had in the past two years, (three in total) had all had to share, and more often than not, came second to Sherlock time.

So John removed the very few personal effects from his consulting room and headed outside before Quinten could change his mind and ask him to finish the shift.  He wasn’t surprised when he exited the clinic to see a familiar black car waiting for him.  Without hesitation, but with a resigned sigh he slipped into the car expecting Mycroft, but found himself facing Anthea instead.  As soon as the door was shut the car took off and she handed him a thick folder without a word.  Without even looking up from her damn phone.  John had long ago suspected that the small device was some sort of life support and removing it from her hand would have the same effect as removing one’s heart or their lungs.

Concluding that he was not to get any further information from Anthea John opened the folder and gave a rough look through.  Enclosed were details on his first hit, plane tickets, a fake ID, fake credit cards, and other documents he would read through when he got back to his flat.

 “Everything you need from now on is in that folder” Anthea informed him, without taking her eyes from the screen of her phone, as the car came to a stop.  John looked up to see he was back at his drab apartment block.  He didn’t even bother looking back at Anthea.  He had been in this situation often enough to know that she had said all she needed to say, so without a word he exited the car.  When he arrived inside his flat he was frustrated to see that all of his belongings, apart from his duffel bag, had been packed up and removed from the building.  A text came through before he even had a chance to walk through to see if the rest of the flat was in the same condition as the living area.

**Your belongings are in storage.  A car will be by shortly to pick you up.  You will be debriefed on the flight  MH**

John looked at plane ticket again.  He was to leave in 2 and a half hours.  John picked up his bag, slipped his key off the key ring and left it on the kitchen bench before exiting the building for the last time.  He was not at all surprised to see another black car glide up to the kurb just as he approached the road.  In fact, he would have been disappointed if it hadn’t happened.  That would have meant that Mycroft was losing his touch.

John threw his bag into the back of the car, no Anthea this time, and slid in after it.  Without a sound the car drifted off into traffic and headed towards Heathrow.  This was it.  Goodbye John Watson.  Hello Paul Herbert, according to his new ID.  He watched London as it slid past his window and wondered if he would ever see it again? 

Who cares? 

It hadn’t been right for three months now, and would probably never be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Apologies for my ignorance in army army and/or spy talk. I have tried googling lingo specific to the subjects but it wasn't as informative as I thought it would have been. I'm sure you will figure out what I mean though!!


	3. 2 - Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months have passed since Sherlock stepped off the roof of Bart's. Now it is time to put the plan to destroy Moriarty's network into action but Sherlock isn't sure if he can leave London. That means leaving John.

Sherlock rotated his left wrist once again.  It had been six weeks since the cast had come off but every now and then he felt it twinge even though the doctor had informed him that the break had healed perfectly.  Sherlock sneered.  What would he know? Despite Mycroft claiming that he was one of the best doctors in London.  (No one would be better than a certain jumper wearing, gun carrying Doctor who resides…resided, at Baker street.) All Sherlock could see when he looked at him was overactive sweat glands, premature balding, chipped tooth, recapped, adulterating, average cricket player with a nervous, (not about the job though), disposition.  He was younger than Sherlock.  Sherlock had trouble trusting medical professionals with less year’s life experience than himself.  But all the same, Sherlock had seen the follow up x-rays and had also sought a second opinion (just to piss Mycroft off) and continued with the exercises the physiotherapist had given him.  The wrist was fine.  Three hours straight on the violin probably hadn’t helped.  Not with his wrist, nor with his mood.  He wanted _his_ violin.  He and his violin had history.  It was comfortable, familiar…it was his.  Sherlock looked to the violin dangling from his fingers.  It was a very good violin, Mycroft only bought the best, but it wasn’t his.  He had wanted Mycroft to retrieve his, but had then been informed that John had laid claim to it.  One of only three items that John had carried of Sherlock’s into his new life.  Sherlock didn’t have the heart to take it away, even though it was a family heirloom and Mycroft had every right to take it back nor did Sherlock ask what the other two items were.  One he knew already as he had been following John, hiding in the shadows, wearing disguises. For the past ten weeks John had taken to wearing Sherlock’s blue scarf.  He never went anywhere without it.  Sherlock had intended to take it with him when he left the hospital, the day he fell, but he had stood in Molly’s office while John practically pleaded to see his body.  Due to the fact that John was not family, (It was a good thing that Molly was there as Sherlock had listed John as his next of kin.  Definitely eligible to view the body), they would not let him.  Well, that and the obvious reason that the only body to view was alive and well, except for the broken wrist.  John had broken down then and that is when Molly had intervened.  Sherlock had worried at first that she was going to spill the beans, but again she had surprised him and calmed John down, giving the scarf to comfort him.  He had wanted the coat, but due to the fact that Sherlock was wearing it at the time and opening the door to retrieve it, (he would have gladly given it up for him), would have provided a glimpse of his very alive flatmate, she had spun a quick lie, telling him that it was damaged and covered in too much blood, but with more tact than that.

Lestrade had then come and taken him home, apparently slipping a sedative into his tea and then making sure he was comfortable on the couch before leaving to apparently go home and grieve on his own.  Mycroft had organised for Mrs Hudson to go to her sisters once she had been told the news of Sherlock’s death.  At first she had protested, saying she needed to keep an eye on John, but Mycroft assured her that he would be looked after and she had eventually relented and gone to spend a few days at her sisters, returning to Baker Street the day before the funeral.  Who would have thought his death would touch so many?

Sherlock felt an uncomfortable pang in his chest so he rotated his wrist again, the pinch of pain re-directing his thoughts, the uncomfortable pang in his chest dissipating.

He sighed and raised the violin again.  He studied it.  It _was_ beautiful, handcrafted out of Alpine Spruce and European Maple, the fingerboard was a deep ebony with rosewood pegs.  It had been made to look antique but it wouldn’t be any more than ten years old.  Twelve at a push. And the sounds it made were truly magnificent.  But it was not his.  With a resigned sigh he placed it back in the case and closed it, pushing it out of sight.  He walked over to the couch and flopped down.  It was a ridiculously short couch, a two-seater, and his legs hung over at the knees.  Typical Mycroft decorating.  Stylish, expensive, impractical.  Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes.  He needed to escape for a while.  He was bored.  He had been for some time.  He was unable to roam London’s streets very often and without the freedom he had so taken for granted.

They had come a temporary halt in tracking down the members of Moriarty’s web.  In order to get new information they needed to do something with what little of it they had now.   It was time to get moving, but apparently Mycroft was trying to negotiate one final player.  Someone imperative to the mission.  The sniper.  Sherlock told him he was being pedantic and that he should just pick one of his many minions available and get on with it already, but his brother was adamant that there was only one man for the job and they wouldn’t move until he was on board.  Sherlock let the comment, that the only man that would be perfect for the job was unavailable, die on his tongue.  It was an argument he knew he wasn’t going to win.  Sherlock had wanted to bring John along on the mission, claiming that they worked better together but Mycroft had been firm that John was to stay in the dark.  Any inkling of Sherlock’s alive status would put the whole mission in jeopardy.  Moran was still out there and hell bent on killing both John and Sherlock.  The only thing stopping him from striking straight away, the only thing keeping John alive, was his impression that Sherlock was dead.  That argument was the only thing that made Sherlock back down.  John was alive because he was dead, therefore that is how it would stay.

Sherlock refocused his thoughts back to John.  John was finally moving on.  Seven weeks ago he had moved out of Baker Street.  That piece of knowledge had made a hole somewhere inside Sherlock that had yet to be refilled.  John belonged at Baker Street.  It was his home.  But Sherlock knew why he had had to move out.  Sentiment.  As much as he scorned the emotion he knew it only too well.  It was why he had been following John around London these past three months.  The past two mornings he had followed John as he moved on with his life just that little bit more.  He had followed John to the café three blocks away from his new flat where, on both mornings, he had ordered a coffee and a cinnamon roll.  This struck Sherlock as odd as John didn’t particularly favour cinnamon rolls.  Sherlock on the other hand had loved them.  They were one of the only foods he would eat while on a case, but John always preferred blueberry muffins, which Sherlock knew the café sold, as after John had arrived at his final destination after leaving the café, the doctor’s surgery two more blocks away, Sherlock would head back to the café and make the same order that John had.  (The extra shot in his coffee this morning probably wasn’t a good idea as Sherlock had already had two cups of coffee before leaving Mycroft’s.) But the point was that John had finally gotten another job.  Granted yes it would be dull and boring, but it would pay the bills and most importantly John would not be in any danger.  Bit by bit, John was moving on.  Not that he seemed happy about it.  Over the past month Sherlock had been slightly distressed to see John’s limp starting to make a minor appearance again.  Nothing major, nothing that warranted the use of a cane, but it was there all the same, just a slight hitch and a minimal drag of the foot.  But what was more distressing was the fact that in those last three months Sherlock had not seen John smile.  Not even once.  He had observed him going to work; going to the pub with Lestrade; shopping; going to his therapist (waste of time); walking through the park, and not once had John smiled, not even when a little girl had thanked him for getting her kite out of the tree.  John Watson was alive but he wasn’t living, but for Sherlock, that was enough.

John was a people person.  Likeable - loveable - soon he would find someone who would make him happy.  A frown fell over Sherlock’s face at that thought.  Once upon a time it was him who had made John happy.  He never knew why but he did and Sherlock often wondered if John would have been happy with only him for the rest of his life.  He would never know now.  Even if he did manage to return from this the chances of John forgiving him were slim-to-none.  Even Sherlock knew that what he had pulled was more than _a bit not good_.  

 So Sherlock continued to watch John.  It was almost therapeutic to see John at least once every two days, every day if he could manage it, and it made him smile to see John wearing the scarf.  He still believed in Sherlock Holmes, and that was enough to keep Sherlock motivated.  That and knowing that once Moran was stopped, John would be completely out of harm’s way.  Now all they had to do was find him.  The new spider in the middle of the web.  It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was going to be worth it.

Over two hours had passed while he was sifting through his own head and once he came back-to Mycroft was home.  Sherlock couldn’t see or hear him but there was a feeling of not being alone any more.  Sherlock got up and made his way to the kitchen.  Sure enough there was Mycroft sitting at the breakfast bench with a cup of tea.  He silently pushed the tea pot forward, towards a tea cup.  Of course it all matched and of course Mycroft didn’t have mugs.  That small cup would be gone in two mouthfuls.  It was hardly worth the effort of making tea. 

 “Find what you needed?” Mycroft asked after taking a sip of tea.  (Well, if you were going to drink it like _that_ then, sure, it would last.)

 “I have no idea what you are on about” Sherlock replied reaching out and sliding the tea cup towards him.  He didn’t fill it with tea, just slowly spun the porcelain cannikin around with his finger.

“You have been wandering around in that precious mind palace of yours for at least two hours.  I assumed you were looking for something in particular.  Or maybe, someone.”

Sherlock refused to rise to the bait. He knew Mycroft knew how he felt about John and Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew that he knew, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock was up for a brotherly heart-to heart.  “Again, I have no idea what you are on about.”

 “I am sure” Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock decided that it was time to change the subject.  “Have you had any luck with the final team member?”

Mycroft eyed the cup that Sherlock was now trying to balance on its handle.  “I have.  He has been debriefed and is on his way to Australia.”

Sherlock only just managed to catch the small cup as it teetered to the side.  “Already!”

He could almost see the relief in Mycroft’s eye when the delicate cup didn’t undergo damage. “We needed to move straight away.  Enough time has been wasted.  You will leave in the morning. And please be careful with that.  The set is a one of a kind.  I will never find a replacement.”

Sherlock ignored the concern over the tea cup, focusing on the beginning of Mycroft’s little speech. “Yes, well, if you hadn’t have been so picky.  A sniper is a sniper, I really don’t know what all the fuss was about.  We could have started months ago.”  If they had started then then Sherlock would be three months closer to returning to John.

Mycroft sighed the sigh of someone who was trying to explain something complex, _again,_ to a stubborn child.  “This needs to be carried out with efficient precision.  No room for mistakes.  One wrong move and Moran will know we are onto him” he explained carefully.  “He will know you are alive and who knows how that will set him off.  The final player in our plan had to be exactly the right man.”

Sherlock set about trying to balance the cup on its handle again.  “And you think you have him.”

 “I think no such thing, little brother. I am dead certain of it.”

 “Who is it?” Sherlock asked, carefully pulling his hands away from the green and orange cup, now delicately teetering on its little handle.  Whoever had made these cups had balanced them rather well.  Sherlock was a little bit impressed.

 “None of your concern.  Just find the targets, he will do the rest” was Mycroft's answer, and even though Sherlock was expecting it, it still made him angry.

Picking the cup up and placing it down properly, probably with a little bit too much force, causing Mycroft to wince, Sherlock glared at his brother. “Why are you so closed about this?”

Mycroft reached out and gently pried the cup from Sherlock’s hands and placed it out of his reach, silently thankful that it hadn’t been damaged in any way shape or form.  “He would rather stay anonymous.  It took a long time to coax him to agree to this.  It is not a position he is proud of, but has agreed all the same.”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded.

 “Why what?” Mycroft was deliberately winding him up.  He knew exactly what Sherlock was asking and Sherlock clenched his fists under the table in order to stop himself from picking up the damned tea pot and throwing against the wall.  The last three months had been dull, stressful even painful to a degree and Mycroft’s refusal to be completely cooperative was grinding Sherlock’s final nerve.

 “What made him agree?  Obviously he did not want to do it in the first place.  That tells me he is a man with a conscience” (Sherlock ignores the vision of John, a dead cabbie), “Isn’t it a huge risk hiring someone like that?”

Mycroft shrugged.  “He will kill for the right reasons.”

 “And you believe our reasons are his right reasons?” Sherlock was now viewing his brother through narrowed eyes.  He was hiding something.  Something other than the shooters name. 

“I explained it all to him.  He came around.  I have full faith that he will not change his mind.”

Sherlock wasn’t convinced.  “You seem to hold a lot of confidence in this man.”

Mycroft finished his cup of tea.  “He has proven himself trustworthy and loyal.  I would trust him with my own life.”

Sherlock was a bit taken aback with that comment, but still not comfortable with Mycroft’s choice. “High praise indeed.  So, tell me his name.  You know I will only find out anyway.”

 “No, Sherlock, I don’t believe you will.” With that, Mycroft stood up and placed his tea cup on the sink.  “Get some sleep.  You leave at 430 tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave.  How could he possibly sleep?  He had done nothing but sleep, every night for 91 nights.  It had been tedious, although his body had thanked him for it.

He stood up and left the kitchen, not bothering with the mess on the kitchen table and made his way to the hall where he pulled his coat out of the cupboard and slid it on.  Silently he made his way out of the house. 

It took no time at all to hail a cab and within 25 minutes he was at John’s apartment.  There were no lights on and the curtains were drawn.  John must have been asleep.  Obviously.  He had work in the morning and it was nearly midnight. 

Suddenly Sherlock didn’t want to leave.  Leaving London meant leaving John and to be able to see John, even just glimpses from afar, had been making his days worthwhile.  Those glimpses had been the reason he got up and got dressed every day. 

So far Sherlock had managed to track four major players in Moriarty’s, now Moran’s, web, just from London alone.  Why couldn’t he track the rest from there as well?  Then he could continue to see John every day. He pondered more on the implications of leaving John (London) and how he may never return.  He wandered as he pondered and then hopped into a cab.  Before he knew it he was at Brompton Cemetery. 

Silently he strode between headstones and plaques, old and new.  It took less than three minutes to find the one he was looking for.  Before him loomed a great ornate black headstone with two words only, elegantly carved in gold.  SHERLOCK HOLMES.  Trust Mycroft to pick a rather ostentatious head stone.  He had not been back here since that day, the day of his funeral.  That day that he had heard John ask Sherlock for one thing.

‘ _One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ...be…dead. Just for me, just stop it.’_

John very rarely asked Sherlock for anything.  It was even rarer for Sherlock to comply with any request.  But for this one request, Sherlock would walk to the ends of the earth to complete.  Reaching out he placed his hand on the cold marble. “As you wish” he whispered and closed his eyes thinking back on that evening, last autumn, when John had made him watch that ridiculous movie about the flower princess and the dead true love.  Despite having complained throughout the entire movie he had actually liked it, especially the idea of a pirate that never died, in name at least.  John had laughed at every one of his complaints telling him to shut up and enjoy the movie, throwing popcorn at him.  The following morning he had found a piece of it still caught in his hair.

After a few minutes of reminiscing on times that he would never have again he turned and sat on top of the headstone, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up.  He puffed as he looked up, another conversation with John running through his mind.

_‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’_

_‘I thought you didn’t care about things like that.’_

_‘Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.’_

What John didn’t know was that Sherlock had, after that case, learnt everything he could about the solar system and filed it under “ _Things that makes John happy_ ” in his mind palace.

He would do anything to make John Happy.  And keep him safe.

With that resolve he stubbed the cigarette out under his foot and headed back to Mycroft’s, ready to leave London for god knew how long.  But he would return, back to John.  Failing was not an option.  Never seeing John was not an option.  Even if John never forgave him he would be happy knowing that John was safe, and he would make do watching him from a distance to make sure he always stayed that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The pirate that never dies, in name at least, is of course a reference to The Princess Bride. If you haven't watched, I suggest you do. It is simply wonderful!


	4. 3 - Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts his new role, travelling the world taking down Moriarty's network one player at a time, with the help of Mycroft's mole. Unfortunately, though, Sherlock's ghost has also followed him from London.

Kalgoorlie was fucking hot.  Mid-September and it had already peaked at 35 degrees Celsius.  The locals had told him that it was unusual for it to be this hot this early in the year.  The hottest they had had in September was 36.8 back in 1980.  John laid on the hotel bed watching the overhead fan spin around and around and around.  His time in Afghanistan had conditioned him for this sort of weather, hot and dry, (not a bloody rain cloud to be seen in the four days he had been here…he would never complain about London’s weather again.)  But just over two years back in London had him reconditioning himself to much more comfortable, inhabitable, temperatures. 

Two days.  That is all the time he was supposed to have been here.  But when they had arrived they had found out that their target, Jason Bartem, had had an unexpected funeral to attend.  In fucking London.  He was due back tomorrow. 

John continued to watch the three blades of the fan, blurring into one, continuing their rotation around and around and around.  Like the Earth orbiting the Sun.  John shut his eyes and inhaled slowly.  He was not thinking about Sherlock. 

John turned his head to the left and stared at the bedside table.  Atop sat an unassuming, ordinary, dull looking folder.  Cream in colour, foolscap in size, containing four sheets of A4 paper, data printed single side only, and two coloured photographs. 

He didn’t need to read the file or look at the photographs.  He knew exactly what was inside.  He had memorised it on the thirty hour flight over here four days ago.

 

 _Jason Francis Bartem, 47 years old, married for the second time, to Rachel Bartem, nee, Wakeling.  They have two children, a son, Michael – 11 and a daughter, Amiee – 8, both from his first marriage, (Their mother disappeared six years ago.  It is now a cold case. John couldn’t help think that if Sherlock were here he would have solved it by now.), and a dog named Julius.  Occupation: Real Estate Agent, owns his own, very successful, business.  Hobbies include, tennis, cricket, cycling and running a very lucrative drug ring, set up by one consulting psychopath whose little empire still gets 25% of the profits.  Not for much longer_.

 

John looked away from the folder and dug in his pocket for his phone.  Pulling it out he looked at the screen.  No new messages no missed phone calls.  It had been two days since he had heard from Mycroft’s go-to guy. (Of course Mycroft would be too busy to converse with John himself.)  This guy, Jenson, had travelled with John to Australia on a private jet which gave them the privacy for him to brief John on the protocol for his missions.  John got the distinct impression that Jenson would have been a nice guy if he didn’t have such a huge fucking chip on his shoulder.  Before they had landed in Perth Jenson had warned John that he didn’t trust him and that he would have preferred one of his own men had been used, but Mycroft placed a great deal of trust in John and if John were to fuck up that trust at all Jenson would make it his personal mission to make sure John’s body never made it back home.

In between declarations of mistrust and death threats Jenson had also managed to convey information about their first target and how the mission would go down.  He had told him his first location, and informed him that all equipment he would need would be waiting for him at the hotel.  If there was anything else he needed then to contact Jenson and Jenson only.  If Mycroft wanted to speak to him then Mycroft would contact him.  (It was here that John was sure that Jenson had no idea of the … relationship between John and Mycroft.)  After they had arrived in Australia and John had exited the plane Jenson had warned John to learn as much about the target as possible as once he left for the hit it was to be silence until an hour after Estimated Time of Hit, therefore he would not be able to contact anyone, nor anyone him, while the job was happening.  John had protested this, due to the fact that he was running solo the whole time, but Jenson told him that they could not risk any form of communication falling into the hands of the enemy, linking them, even remotely, back to Mycroft or the British Government and wires and bugs could be detected if an electronic sweep were done.  John was to operate silent. His mobile phone was to be left at the hotel while he was on the job.  Back up would know where he was at all times and if too much time had lapsed after the ETH then a rescue party would be sent after him.  Besides, if he was prepared and as good as Mycroft insisted then there should be no need for back-up.  He then turned and re-boarded the plane, even though John was pretty sure it would be a while before it was refuelled and ready to leave.

That first night John was getting his gear ready for the first job when Jenson called, not with details for the first job, but to say there had been a delay and to lie low.  Three days ago he had called back to say the target would be returning Thursday and the mole would set up a meeting for the hit and the details would be relayed to John as soon as possible. 

John had questioned the identity of the mole on the way over but Jenson had told John that it was a need to know basis and John certainly did not need to know.  John felt a bit uneasy about taking instructions from an unknown party, (trust issues…wonder why), but he had to trust that Mycroft knew what he was doing, and that said a lot that he was putting his trust, not only in an anonymous figure, but also in Mycroft Holmes.

John stuffed his phone back in his pocket got up grabbing his wallet and room key and made his way out side.  It was almost 6pm and it was still uncomfortably warm but John disregarded the heat as much as he could and headed off down the street.  He walked along and noted a taxi (not black) heading in his direction.  He raised his arm to hail and then remembered that a lot of taxis don’t stop when you hail them here.  You normally had to order them or find a taxi rank.  John kept walking and eventually found a pub he hadn’t tried yet.

The restaurant was on the upper levels and John opted to sit out on the balcony, looking over the small town.  It was odd that there was still quite a lot of sunlight but at least there was a small breeze that helped with the heat.  John placed his order and sat back and watched the locals going about their business on the streets below.  It couldn’t get more different from London if it tried. Sherlock would have complained every second that he was here, but he would have enjoyed himself.  So much new data to take in, to analyse.  John closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.  He was _not_ thinking about him.  Slowly he raised his head and reached out for his beer, _Feral White Witbier_ , a brew that was manufactured not far from here.  ‘ _And it was bloody good_ ’ John thought as he swallowed down the mouthful, pushing all thoughts of Sherlock out of his head.  Before too long he was distracted again by the waitress placing his meal down in front of him. 

“Enjoy” she said with a cheeky little wink before moving onto the next table.  

~o~

Once the meal was finished and another beer was consumed he left the pub and wandered the streets a bit more.  He walked past restaurants and shops and a cinema.  After a few steps he stopped and backtracked.  He looked up at the windows to see what was playing.  It had been ages since he had gone to the cinema, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do.  Maybe it would pass the time.  John stepped into the building and readied himself to watch the remake of Total Recall.  How bad could it be?  The original was pretty damn good.  Two hours later John stepped back out into the Kalgoorlie streets feeling utterly disappointed, but then again, most things these days left him feeling that way,but hey, why should he be so hard on himself.  It was a crappy remake.

John made his way back towards the hotel, watching everyone who passed, at the same time ignoring them.  As he was waiting at the lights to cross the road he looked across the street.  For a second his breath stuttered to a stop and his stomach felt like it was about to drop out from under him, but then everything settled and started working as it should as he watched a familiar figure walk down a side street and disappear around the corner.  It was dark and his eyes had been playing tricks on him for over three months now, plus it couldn’t have been Sherlock, despite the walk and the dark curly hair.  That man had been dressed in cargo pants and a short sleeved, pale blue _tee_ -shirt.  Sherlock would never have been seen dead in such a get up, unless it was for a case, and there were no cases to solve here.  Just trash to take out.  That and Sherlock was dead. 

John arrived at the hotel, showered and settled in for an early night.  He was woken the following morning by his email alert, just as the sun was rising.  Bartem arrived home last night and a drop off had been arranged at a location called Goongarrie Station in the abandoned town of Goongarrie, located 84km north of Kalgoorlie, at 900am.  A hire car would be waiting for him in half an hour.  He would need to leave soon in order to find a place to set up where he would have full access and full cover. 

Without another thought John got up, dressed in khaki camo and made his way out to the hire car, tool bag in hand. 

Fuck, it was hot again.

~o~

The drive took John just under an hour and a half and along the way he passed numerous dead kangaroos and almost hit an emu.  And there was not another person in sight, just miles and miles of bush.  Eventually he arrived at the station and muttered several curses under his breath.  There was nothing there.  An old dilapidated corrugated iron hut with boarded up windows.  Surrounding the building was more fucking low bush, a few trees and dirt.  There was a small pond, half filled with murky water, in what John assumed used to be a paddock about 200 meters away.    No-fucking-where for cover, except inside the building, but that was no good, especially since the windows were boarded up.  John double checked the GPS location he had carefully copied down from his phone against the GPS in his car and cursed again.  He was in the correct location.  John would be having words to Mycroft, even if it was through Jenson, about the apparent intelligence of his mole.  Giving his surroundings one last glance around John decided his best bet was a small, dense cluster of trees about 680 yards away.  That would have to do.  He drove the car around the back of the cluster of trees, which was only just large enough to hide the vehicle if he parked on an odd angle.  He then broke a fair sized branch off of one of the trees and used it to brush away the tyre tracks and his foot prints as he made his way back to the car. John checked the time.  He had just under an hour before Bartem was due to show.  He hoisted himself up into the trees and made himself comfortable, hoping his camo gear blended in well enough with the trees, and waited.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t for the flies.  They were worse here than in Afghanistan, (excluding the exception of when there had been a dead body in the vicinity.)  They were driving him insane.

Eventually John saw movement in the distance.  The familiar trail of dust rising as a vehicle sped along, disturbing the surface of the road.  It wasn’t long before a black 4-wheel –drive approached towards John and pulled up in front of the old station .  Less than a minute later Bartem stepped out of the car and stretched as he looked around for his customer. 

‘ _Joke's on you arsehole’_ John thought as he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder and lined the man up in his sight.  Just as he looked in Johns direction John pulled the trigger. There was hardly a sound as the bullet was pushed through the barrel of the rifle and travelled at around1036 metres per second to land between Jason’s eyes, just above the nose piece of his, no doubt, ridiculously expensive sunnies.  A flock of birds, unknown to John, were startled and took off into the sky to find a more peaceful place to rest.  With precise efficiency John disassembled the rifle, placed it in his bag and then climbed down from the tree making his way over to the hired jeep.  Within seconds he was headed back to Kalgoorlie to shower and get the fucking dust off of him.  As he drove John refused to think about the fact that he just killed a man and instead thought about how Jason Bartem knowingly helped fund James Moriarty.

It was once he was back at his hotel and showered that he was listening to the news while throwing the last of his effects into his duffle bag.  There was a brief report on how the remains of Jason Bartems first wife had been found.  The police were now trying to contact him for questioning.  ‘ _Perfect timing!’_ John thought to himself and then instantly forgot about it as he headed towards the reception desk to check out, ready to move onto his next job.

~o~

Just under 48 hours and three plane transfers later John was in New Orleans. 

The flights hadn’t been unpleasant.  In fact, they had been quite comfortable.  Mycroft’s people had set him up in first class.  As John had become comfortable in the first leg of the journey from Australia to America the thought that he should have started working for Mycroft ages ago flitted through his mind.  It was quickly followed by, ‘ _No, I really shouldn’t have._ ’  Since he had no one sitting next to him and he was in the back row John felt that he had enough privacy to read over the next file.  He wished he hadn’t.  John got as far as reading _Michael Tarver.  Age: 17_ before he closed the file.  It wasn’t until three hours later that he had been able to open the file again.  When he did he refused to look at the kid’s age.  Mycroft had told him that some of the targets would be young.  That didn’t mean he had to like it.

_Michael Geoffrey Tarver; Father Geoffrey, lawyer; Mother Helena, psychologist; Younger Brother, Nathan, 14; Girlfriend, Maria Hamilton, 17; Grade A+ student; Captain of the football team.  He was a good looking lad.  Taller than John, athletically built, blonde hair, blue eyes, straight teeth, perfect skin.  When he wasn’t studying or playing football he could be found hanging out with his mates and consorting with white terrorists and making plans for biological bombs._

The boy was a genius (John decidedly did not start thinking about the many ways Sherlock would test that theory).  His science grades were phenomenal, currently doing uni grade work at high school.  He had several anonymous email addresses, websites and Facebook pages that he all ran from his house but, until recently and with the help of Mycroft's mole, had been untraceable.  As had the mobile phone that he had been using to contact the other players in his game.  John had read transcripts from tapped phone conversations and it made his blood run cold.  Twice, Moriarty’s name had been mentioned.  It appeared they had no idea the bastard was dead.  Someone (Moran) had taken his place…Just like the dread pirate Roberts.  A small smile lit John’s face at the thought of that particular movie night.  He had found kernels of popcorn for days afterwards, in the oddest places.

~o~

John checked into his hotel.  It was nice.  Much nicer than Kalgoorlie.  It was a little place in the French Quarter and it was maybe a bit too nice for John’s liking, but he wasn’t paying for it, so he didn’t care. 

Thunder rumbled through the late afternoon sky just as he opened the door to his room.  Inside his tool bag was waiting for him.  He opened it up and checked that everything was inside.  Happy that everything was as it should be John decided to shower as he waited for the mole to deliver a time and location.  That came the following day, Sunday.  Monday was the day to hit.  Michael always stayed back after football training, alone.  He usually left the oval at around 7pm, so John would have the cover of Darkness.  He went out that night and sussed out the surroundings in night time conditions.  It was fairly isolated.  Only two houses across from the oval and not many street lights.  John looked around, he couldn’t see any security cameras, but he would message Jenson when he got back to the hotel and find out for sure. Then he went back to the hotel, ordered food and went to sleep.

~o~

The following night John waited patiently not far from the entrance of the football oval.  The mole was right.  Everyone had left over and hour ago.  There was only one car in the carpark and according to Jenson it belonged to one Michael Tarver.  John waited until he saw the boy passing through the arch that lead to the football grounds and approached him, (Mycroft would fucking kill him if he knew John was approaching face to face), cap pulled low. 

“Hey, mate” John called out.  “Was wondering if I could borrow your phone.  Mines flat, and my hire car just died.”

Michael rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the latest smartphone.  Same as Johns incidentally.  “Sure, no problem” he said handing it over.

Despite the amount of villains English people have played in movies people still heard the accent and thought _lovely chap_ or _tottering fool_.  Unfortunately for Michael, John was neither.  As soon as he was in reaching distance Johns hand shot out of his pocket, pushing a small, but effective, blade up under the boys ribs, straight into his heart.  He didn’t see it coming.  John tried to feel sorry, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.  Instead he pulled the body up next to the car so it wouldn’t be seen from the road, then he rifled through Michaels pockets and bag and took his wallet, phone, tablet and a handful of USB sticks.  (Mycroft’s men could have those and see if anything helpful was on them.)  It would look like a mugging gone wrong, less suspicious than a deliberate execution on a 17 year old boy. 

 John made his way back to his stolen car, procured by someone that John was happy not to know.  He shed his leather gloves and shoved them into a plastic bag, along with the jacket, which had a small amount of Michael’s blood on it, as well as the blade he had used to do the job.  He then powered down Michaels phone and tablet and placed them, with the USB sticks, all in a separate bag.  Those items were to be sent to an address that he had been given before leaving London.  They were either going to be helpful, or they weren’t.  Either way, they were Mycroft’s problem now.  Michael’s wallet was thrown on the floor next to the bag with the knife and the gloves.  It would all be burnt before he made his way to the airport, along with the car.

~o~

5 hours later John was in Alburquerque on his way to yet another hotel, to await yet another set of instruction from his mole pertaining to a Doctor William Norman and a Doctor Elsi Keys.  They were two of Michael Tarver’s main contacts, who had only been discovered two days ago.

_William Albert Norman; Age63; Unmarried; No children; Former Occupation - Biochemist and had devoted much of his time to researching the human immune system.  3 years ago he retired in the middle of crucial research which had taken him years to get grants for.  He gave no reason for his abrupt departure.  It appeared he had been given a better offer.  In his spare time he played golf, met at a local club with an old friend from uni, played chess and schooled young scholars, such as Michael Tarver into becoming Bio-terrorists._

As for his partner in crime:

_Elsi Melissa Keys; 34 years old; Fiance’, Caleb Hall 37, engineer; children, none; both parent’s deceased; older brother, Harrison, 37 and younger brother, Jason, 29.  Elsi was top of her class, taking out honours in organic chemistry.  She now worked developing drugs for sufferers of Parkinson ’s disease.  The results were looking promising.  During her spare time, which she had very little of, she spent in an old warehouse, testing her own drugs on the homeless and conspiring with Dr Norman.  All of her supplies come, illegally, via Psycho’s ‘R’ Us!_

The instructions came through at 2am in the form of an address of an old warehouse and a time that they would both be there.  John had 6 Hours.  Quickly he dressed, packed up his belongings and made his way out to the hire car that he knew would be waiting for him.  He dumped his stuff in the boot, put his tool bag on the back seat and headed towards an apparently empty warehouse.  And from the outside that is exactly what it looked like.  Conveniently someone had left an upstairs window open.  John wasn’t sure if this was the doing of Mycroft’s men or if it was a very lucky coincidence (He shook his head as he heard Sherlock’s voice whisper ‘ _The universe is rarely so lazy_ ’) either way, he wasn’t about to ignore it.  John had to pull over a bin and stand on it to reach the ladder but within minutes he was up the fire escape and climbing through the window.  Cautiously he moved through the building listening for signs of movement but so far luck seemed to be on his side.  It was dark inside and he was loath to use anything brighter than the little torch he had had concealed in his pocket, for fear of drawing attention to what was supposed to be a dark, empty warehouse.  He was covered in black so if there were any security cameras he wouldn’t be able to be recognised, but he still felt uneasy.  Something about this place just wasn’t right and it made his skin prickle.  He kept expecting an alarm or some unsuspecting thug, but there was nothing.  Until he heard a groan. John held stock still, straining to listen in the silence, then he heard it again.  John knew that sound.  He had heard it many times in the deserts of Afghanistan and in London’s emergency rooms.  That was the sound of someone weak and in pain.  Someone trying to hold onto the last bit of life drawing through their veins.  Without much looking John found the source of the distress and felt ill.  Beyond a thick door, sealed and locked with a square glass panel was a room with three hospital beds and on those beds were three men hooked up to IV’s.  Even in the dim light provided by overhead lighting in the room he could see that the men were naked covered in nothing but oozing lacerations and boils. 

John felt ill.  These must be the homeless men that Dr Keys had been using as guinea pigs.  Several doors down from there John found another identical locked door with glass panelling.  Inside were another three people.  This time it was two men and a woman, again hooked up to IVs.  Their skin was a grey colour and dried out to the point where it was cracking and bleeding.  Their hair was falling out in clumps.  Their finger tips and toes were black – necrosis of the skin and tissues.  These ones, although breathing, seemed to be unconscious.  Small mercies. 

John continued, refusing to look in any more glass doored rooms, which he counted at least four more of.  Those images would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

Eventually he found a vantage point from where he could stay up high and see down to the main entrance.  Thinking of those poor bastards in the locked rooms, John set up his rifle and waited patiently.  It was a little under four hours later when John heard the heavy front door being unlocked.  A minute later a short, blonde, perky looking woman entered.  John waited for her to close and lock the door and then thumb in a code to the control panel next to the door.  Apparently it was not obvious to her that the alarm had already been shut down.  Mycroft's mole must have set it up that way.  As she headed toward the staircase on the other side of the room John pulled the trigger.  Elsi Keys dropped to the floor, her blonde hair slowly turning red.  John turned his sight back to the door.  It wasn’t that the image of Elsi, with the back of her head shot through, bothered him, he just wanted to be ready for when his next target walked through the door.  John didn’t even have to wait ten minutes.  Again, there was the sound of the tumblers turning in the heavy lock and then the sound of the door scraping over concrete as it opened.  Mr William Norman rushed through, practically slamming the door behind him. 

“Elsi” he called.  “Did you see the news, Michael was kill….” He stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him.  Elsi, slumped face first over the stairs, a puddle of red gathering around her head.  “Elsi..” he cried out, but he never got to say another word as a bullet quietly entered his right temple.  John packed up his tool bag and then exited the way he entered.

~o~

John arrived early at the airport and deposited his tool bag in locker number 35 where it would be picked up by some unknown person and be delivered to his next hotel.  John was never surprised at the fact that the bag was at the hotel before him.  John had always been convinced that Mycroft had certain magic powers and had long ago learnt not to question them.  He never would have got any answers if he did.  Due to his early arrival he had a three hour wait at the airport and while he was sitting in the airport café he took note of the local news on the TV in the corner.  A very familiar looking warehouse was on fire and the fire brigade seemed to be having a hard time putting it out.  God knows how many bodies they would find in the wreck.  Hopefully every trace of whatever Elsi Keys had been growing in there was destroyed.  No one should have that knowledge.

John looked up, just as a tall auburn haired man walked past in a great big black coat, head cast downwards.  The colouring of the hair was wrong, so was the style, combed back, but there was something eerily familiar about the way he carried himself.  John took a few deep breaths to calm himself down, to stop him from getting up and chasing down the person in the black coat.  He had done that, more than once, back home.  It was never him.  It could never be him.  Sherlock was dead.  But unfortunately his ghost was following him around the world.

~o~

John’s next stop was Haiphong, Vietnam, another 30 hour flight and in first class again.  John tried not to get to used to it and instead of revelling in the comforts of airline luxury he took the time to get to know his next project.   This was a Quyen Huu Dung. 

_Age; 45; The only son of a janitor and a grocer; married to two women – Kim and Suong.  Neither knew about the other; No children; Two Saluki dogs.  They resided with wife number 2; Occupation – entrepreneur.  Mr Dung owned many businesses, the most lucrative involved the sale of women and children and, on the odd occasion, men as well, to the highest bidder.  During his spare time, when he was not buying and tearing down business or destroying the lives of innocent people Dung liked to visit any of the many strip clubs he owned.  Unfortunately for Quyen Huu Dung, despite all of the business that he owned, he himself was owned, by Moriarty Enterprises which, unfortunately again, meant that he wouldn’t be around for much longer to enjoy the perks of his job._

John studied the photos in the dossier.  The man looked sly and cunning.   He looked evil.  John had a feeling that he wouldn’t lose any sleep over this one. 

Despite not feeling anything at the time of the jobs John had had nightmares about the people whose lives he had ended.  It wasn’t something that he enjoyed doing and he knew that once the mission was over it would all crash down on him.  Somehow he didn’t think that this was something he was going to be able to tell his therapist about, even if he hadn’t signed a rather lengthy and threatening confidentiality agreement. 

Taking lives was not something John Watson had wanted to do with his life.  It was why he had become a doctor and why he had rejected the offers the army had made him.  But John had felt nothing for the past three months and taking out these people was saving a lot more lives, in the long run, than treating runny noses and STI’s.  He convinced himself that that made it okay...for now.

John had also hoped that taking on this job, taking out the people that had, inadvertently, forced Sherlock to jump off of St Bart’s, would help him feel something again.  A sense of peace, justification…hell, even anger would be good, anything to help with the closure, but apart from eradicating his limp ( _again_ ) this mission was doing nothing to help him move along.  In fact, it was making things worse.  Whenever he had downtime he kept seeing Sherlock everywhere.  Sometimes things weren’t quite right, like at the airport, the hair was all wrong, but there was always something to remind him.  When he was busy, it was fine.  The work gave him something to do, it kept him moving, but he still felt empty and hollow.  He still felt incomplete.  Who knew?  Maybe once Moran had been brought down John would feel that something that he had been missing.  Either way, these people needed to be stopped.  And if John didn’t do it, someone else would.  At least he could go to sleep at night, even if it was a disturbed sleep, knowing that he was hurting the ones who hurt Sherlock and that they would never be able to hurt anyone else ever again.  He was eliminating the ones who had hurt him and was still hurting him now.  Moriarty may be dead, but by the time John was finished everything that he had worked for would also be destroyed.

As soon as John got to the hotel he flopped on the bed and closed his eyes falling asleep in his clothes.  The jetlag and odd hours were starting to catch up with him.  He slept on the bed, over the covers, and he slept deep.  There were no dreams or nightmares and there was no stirring, not until his phone went off just after midday the following day.

~o~

John punched in the access code to the strip joint.  It was 5am.  No one was in.  Slowly he opened the door and held his breath, waiting for the alarm to go off.  Nothing.  The code worked.  He had been assured that all surveillance had been taken down, not only in the building but in the street cameras surrounding the building also.  John followed the Moles directions he had been given to Dungs office by Jenson, which John was relieved for.  Behind the stage was like a bloody rabbit’s warren.   Inside the office was a small secret room with a one way mirror across from Dungs desk.  John was to set up in there.  He would be able to see Dung, but Dung wouldn’t be able to see him.  Following further directions John found the latch for the sliding wall, behind the pot plant and the wall slowly moved away.  Just as he was about to step into the room the overhead lights came to life, illuminating the entire office.

“ _Ai là thằng quái nào ?_ ” Came a slithery voice from behind John.  He suppressed the shiver and slowly turned around to find his hit standing before him with a look on his face that said that he was debating between being shocked and pissed off at finding an intruder in his office.  He was an hour early.  Fuck. “ _Trả lời tôi, Ai là thằng quái nào ?_ ” Came the voice again and he was now most definitely not shocked, but very pissed off.  John had no fucking idea what he was saying nor did he care.  He went to reach for the gun in the holster under his jacket but Dung drew a gun of his own and spoke again, this time in perfect English. “I will ask one more time” he said “Who the hell are you?”John raised his arms in surrender. 

“My name is John Watson.  I work on behalf of the British Government.  I have been employed to destroy James Moriarty’s network.  Unfortunately for you, you are next on my list.”  John tells him, figuring that the truth would work the best. It wasn’t like Dung was going to live to be able to repeat it to anyone.  

Dung seemed to find John’s explanation funny as he threw his head back and laughed, which was his first mistake, as this gave John time to pull his own gun out.   “You expect me to believe that a little, incompetent, man such….”  He stopped talking when the bullet tore through his throat.  It didn’t kill him straight away.  John wasn’t feeling too generous after Dung made his second mistake.

“Why do people insist on calling me little” John groused as he walked over and picked up Dungs gun, placing it in his tool bag.  “I’m in the fuckin perimeter for average height of an English male.”  

John looked down to Dung who was grasping at the hole in his throat dark red blood flowing though his fingers as it gurgled up his throat.  John squatted down next to Dung and spoke, softly, like he would an ill patient in a hospital bed.  “I’m tired.  I have had a shit week, hell a shit many weeks.  You shouldn’t have been rude and I would have made it quick.”  

Dung gurgled a bit more as his palm pressed over the wound in his throat while his fingers scratched at the skin under them.  John was pretty sure he was trying to communicate something, other than how unbearably painful it all was.  Going by the look on his face it was probably a plea for mercy.  John leaned in a bit closer and said in a low, calming voice.  

“I can fix that right now, is that what you want?” John asked.  Dung nodded frantically, eyes wide, pleading.  John breathed in through his nose and exhaled slowly.  He looked down at the man below him with an almost thoughtful look on his face. 

“You know, I have brought down murderers of the most sadistic kind, arsonists, blackmailers, embezzlers and frauds, kidnappers and violent men, but none I despise more than those who prey on children, and you, Mr Dung, are the worst kind of prey.  You take those children and you strip them bare.  You use them and abuse them and treat them like stock…sell to the highest bidder.  You take away everything that is good and innocent and you dirty it.  You ruin their lives.  Lives that they haven’t had a chance to live yet, so while you lie there, trying to stop the bleeding by pushing your hand over the hole in your throat, it won’t work by the way, I’m a doctor and I can tell you right now that you are going to die, just remember that you don’t get to ask for mercy or forgiveness or for a quick painless death.  You are scum of the earth, the most depraved of human kind.  You deserve to rot in hell.  How are you feeling by the way?”  

Dung didn’t answer.  He wasn’t quite dead yet, but it was a close thing.   His skin had gone ashen, his eyes glassy, the blood flow had slowed down considerably and his gurgling breaths were far and few between.  Then they were none.  

John sat there for a few more moments, watching as a red tinted bubble slowly slid down Dungs chin before popping, until he was convinced there was no chance that Dung would survive.  He wouldn’t.  Even if someone found him now, he was dead.  There was no coming back from this. 

John stood up and placed his gun back in the holster and rifled through the brief case that Dung had been carrying.  Inside was the blue ledger and a tablet that he had been asked to collect.  He slid those into his tool bag, pulled his ski mask back down and left the way came in. 

As he moved around the building, keeping to the shadows, he saw a tall figure being wrestled into a black car across the road.  John’s heart felt like it stopped beating for a few seconds as he froze on the spot.  Not here too.  Did every country have a Sherlock doppelganger?  This one was made more vibrantly real by the fact that it looked like Mycroft was kidnapping him.   John couldn’t be certain but this one looked like the one at Albuquerque airport, light hair brushed back.  The car drove off and John released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. 

Quietly, keeping to back streets and alleyways John made it back to the hotel, and stripped off his ski mask before stepping into the street light.  He was tired.  He wanted to go to bed and sleep for a week, but he couldn’t hang around once the job was done, so he went up to his room, changed clothes and packed.  An hour later he was sitting in yet another airport, waiting for his flight to Berlin, where, he had been informed, he would have three days reprieve before his next task.  For John, it couldn’t come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Feral White is a Belgian-style Witbier. A beer brewed by the Feral Brewing Company, established 2005 and located in Baskerville, Western Australia….I kid you not! 
> 
> **I really apologise if I got the speed of the bullet way wrong. I looked everywhere on how to calculate the speed of a bullet fired from a high powered rifle and could not get a straight answer anywhere. This was an average of the many answers that I did find!!
> 
> ***Also, apologise for the Vietnamese translations….I am only as good as google translator!  
> Dung says : ":Who the hell are you?" & "Answer me. Who the hell are you?"


	5. 4 - Unknowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels that Mycroft's mystery man is holding him back and he still doesn't trust him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of child abuse in this chapter.

Sherlock paced the floor of his hotel suite over and over again.  He was getting twitchy.  He needed something to do.  Anything to do.  He rubbed his arm where three nicotine patches sat and considered adding another one.  So far five was his limit, he had never pushed it any further than that, but at the moment he was willing to try.  He looked to the box of nicotine patches, thrown haphazardly on the bed and then looked away.  No.  John would lecture him if he did it any more.  This was his second attempt, since the fall at St Bart’s, that he had tried giving up smoking, after taking it back up on the day that he had fallen.  When he got back to John he wanted there to be as few reasons as possible for John to be upset with him, although, he was pretty certain that smoking was going to be the least of his problems.  Sherlock ran his hands through his hair again.  The neat combed back style he had adopted for the past two jobs had been reverted back to its messy sprawl of curls since he had arrived at Luckenwalde.   He looked to his phone again, furious.  Mycroft had been ignoring all of his messages and refusing to answer any of his calls and his men were threatening him.  Why were they even here, trailing him anyway?  The idea of using Mycroft’s secret sniper was so they could work alone.  Granted he knew that Mycroft’s men where there in case of emergency and to complete clean up and deliver supplies and….oh, whatever.  That doesn’t mean that they need to be monitoring him.  When will Mycroft finally decide that Sherlock is capable of doing his own thing?  He doesn’t need constant babysitting.  It’s not like they communicate with him directly anyway.  They won’t even tell him when this all elusive sniper is arriving in Germany, just that he is having a 3 day reprieve while Sherlock finalises the details for the next hit.  That fact alone frustrates the hell out of Sherlock.  Why were they breaking?  They had barely been on the case for two weeks.  He huffed again.  If John were with him they wouldn’t be breaking.  John could go for ages without needing to take a break any larger than a couple of hours sleep. 

Sherlock cursed this man to a hell he didn’t believe in for slowing him down.  So far, only five people had been eradicated from Moriarty’s web.  (The delays in Australia had held them back enough, although locating the remains of Bartem’s first wife had filled in the time.  He had found her in the first two days, but had not informed the authorities until he knew that Bartem was on his way to his death.  She had been dead for six years, a couple more days were not going to make any difference.)  There were still so many more people to deal with before he could return to London.  To John.  Unnecessary delays needed to be avoided. 

Maybe he could carry this one out on his own?  It wouldn’t be hard surely.  Granted Sherlock had never killed anyone before, not directly, but he definitely knew how he would go about it.  It wouldn’t be that hard, after all simpletons did it on a daily basis, all over the world.

He pulled out his laptop and clicked on the file for Elmar Lucas Gerhardt’s, not that he needed to see the file.  He knew it off by heart.  Local politician.  Not high enough to ever run for president, but still high enough to be influential, and has the means to run a people smuggling ring. 

This one was discovered while sorting out Quyen Huu Dung.  A lucky break that was.  Unfortunately for Gerhardt there is always a paper trail…or these days, an electronic paper trail, and Dung had kept certain transactions between himself and Elmar.  You know how it is with criminals.  You can’t trust them, therefore make sure you have something to use against them, so if they ever rat on you, you can bring them down too.

Just as the file opened up his phone pinged, alerting him that he had received a message.

**Sit tight and be patient.  Do not do anything rash.  M**

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room.  Instead he typed out another message.

**I can have a location set up in four hours.  Six at the most.  Why are we waiting?**

Mycroft had forbade Sherlock to sign his messages, or use names, or indicate that they were related, although Sherlock had already come to that conclusion, but Mycroft being Mycroft was an over protective, interfering, condescending toff. 

His phone pinged again.

 **Not all of us have your lack of need for proper sleep and nourishment.  This next job will be tricky.  We can’t afford for anything to go wrong.** **I repeat, be patient. M**

Technically that is not what Mycroft had said the first time, so therefore he wasn’t repeating himself, but instead of conveying that he typed

**I want a name.**

Sherlock wasn’t surprised when his phone started ringing.

“Who am I working with?” he greeted.

Sherlock could almost hear the sigh that Mycroft wanted to breath, but wouldn’t.  Instead he used his _Big Boy_ voice to say “We have been over this, Sherlock.  He is to stay anonymous.  That stunt you pulled in Haiphong was reckless, especially since the target had arrived early.” 

Sherlock frowned.  “How was I to know he wouldn’t follow his normal pattern?”

This time Mycroft let the sigh out.  “That was never your problem. You were supposed to have been back at the hotel.  You little commotion could have put us back a considerable amount of time.”

“But it didn’t” Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes.  “I am assuming all went well, otherwise you would have contacted me sooner.”

“Yes, despite the alteration in plans Quyen Huu Dung was dealt with.  Not the normal method, but effective all the same.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock hated that he sounded interested.

“It wasn’t a clean hit.  Dung was shot through the throat and bled out.  He had scratch marks around his neck where he had clawed at his own throat.  He died slowly and in agonising pain.”  It didn’t faze Sherlock at all that his brother sounded quite impressed with this fact, when the normal reaction to most people would be slight horror at best.  Instead it made him judge Mycroft’s special minion all the more.

“I thought you said your guy didn’t want to do this.  Something about having a conscience.”

“Yes, well” Mycroft drawled, “Dung wasn’t a very nice man.”

“Neither were the others, but they all died with a single shot” Sherlock bit back.  He still didn’t like the inconsistency in this man’s morals.  He either hated the killing of a person, or he didn’t.  Sherlock wished he would make up his mind.

“Except young Michael Tarver” Mycroft pointed out.

Ah, yes.  The teenage biochemist.  “That was quite clever making it look like a mugging gone wrong.  Your idea?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound as uninterested as possible, but he had been impressed with that one.

“No, all his.  At first I was furious that he had made personal contact, but then I saw the appeal of making it look that way.  Not to mention the information we gleaned from the tablet, phone and USB sticks that he took from the target.  The American authorities have been informed and other members of their little group, minor ones we don’t need to worry about, are being dealt with as we speak.  There were quite a few of them.”  Now Mycroft sounded very impressed.  Sherlock wondered if he should expect a happy announcement any day now.

Although he had been impressed with that hit, and had admired the assassin, briefly.  He just found him annoying now.

“You know that I will figure it out, so why don’t you just tell me his identity and be done with it.”  Sherlock had pulled up a blank document and had started randomly tapping at the keys on his laptop, just out of sheer boredom.

“You will not seek him out, you will not wait at drop offs trying to get a glimpse of him.  You will carry out the mission, as we have planned, and forget about the sniper.  Have I made myself clear?”

Sherlock stopped typing when he realised he had spelt out John’s name over and over again in one long running line.  “Very, but since when do I follow your orders?”

The sigh at the other end of the phone was not an impatient one.  It was a clear indication that Mycroft, as controlled as ever, was starting to get very ticked off.  “If you continue this I will pull the sniper and you will work with one of my men.  If that is to happen, it will be done above board.  There will be rules and regulations to follow.  It will take a substantial amount of time longer to complete this mission, so if you truly are enjoying yourself and want to spend extra time away from…London, by all means, continue with your attempts.  I hope the knowledge of a name will be worth it.”

And with that he hung up.  No room to argue.  Nothing left to say.  That wasn’t an empty threat.  Sherlock felt the anger well up and this time he didn’t resist the urge to throw the phone.  It was hurled across the room and Sherlock heard the screen crack as it made impact with the wall.  He got up and made his way to the bed, flopping down next to the box of patches and brought his hands up to temple under his chin, the frown not leaving his face.  It was frustrating not knowing something when he knew that Mycroft knew the answer.  Two words.  A first name and a surname.  A photo.  That is all he was asking for.

Three times he had tried to find the snipers identity.  In New Orleans he had left his hotel room to go to the football oval but had been intercepted on the way by Mycroft’s men.  He hadn’t even made it out of the lobby.

In Albuquerque he had even gone to the trouble of leaving a window wide open at the warehouse as invitation so he would know where the man would enter the building.  He had set up camp in the warehouse next to bio-lab but again, Mycroft’s men had intercepted.  He had been threatened with a tranquiliser gun at that point.

In Haiphong he had just decided to wait at the bus stop across from the strip club.  He was surprised at how long it had taken Mycroft’s men to find him.  When they had arrived he refused point blank to get in the car.  That is when they decided to basically tackle him to the ground and drag him into the car. He felt good about getting his elbow in to Agent Smyth’s ribs.  That had been rather satisfactory indeed.

Because of all of their interference though he hadn’t even caught a glimpse of this mystery man and it irked him.  Sherlock did not like Mysteries he couldn’t solve.  He also didn’t like not knowing anything about those he was supposed to trust. He didn’t need to make contact.  He just needed to observe, make his own deductions that the man was trustworthy.  Leaving this in the hands of someone unknown was almost unbearable.  He had to know that the person helping him get back to John would do the job.  That he wouldn’t back out or betray the mission.  But now he wouldn’t even have that chance.  Mycroft _would_ hold true to his word and lump him with Agent Rules and Agent Regulations and that would add too much time to a mission that was already taking too long.

Sherlock missed John.  Missed at least being able to follow him to work in the mornings.  Sherlock thought that he had been happy on his own but when John moved into his life he made Sherlock realise that he wasn’t actually happy with alone, just familiar with it.  John had come along and pulled the rug out from under his feet and then thrown it over his head.  What he thought was a firm, solid existence was now unstable and disorientating and Sherlock should have hated that but he didn’t.  He had loved every minute of it because John made it interesting.  John made it fun. John made it more than an existence.  He made it a life.

When Moriarty had had John strapped in bombs Sherlock had realised that what he felt for John was more than just mere friendship.  During the Adler debacle he had realised that those feelings had run from the platonic to the _romantic_ (god, how he hated that word).  During the Baskerville case he had realised that he was in fact in love with John and had been all along.  He hadn’t noticed it as such as he had never felt that way, never expected to feel that way, about anyone.  Sure he loved his parents and Mrs Hudson, as shockingly irritating as they were, and to a certain degree, in some twisted way he loved Mycroft, not that anyone would hear him ever admit that, but not like he loved John.  For John he would do anything.  He had theoretically died for John, and if necessary he would really die for John.  If he had to he would wipe everyone out of his life and it probably wouldn’t bother him too much, but trying to live without John was sheer agony.  It was torture in its cruellest form.  John had forged his way into Sherlock’s life.  It was like he had dug a hole in Sherlock’s chest, specifically John shaped and taken up residence there.  He had invaded his mind and tagged his name on every wall and every door of his mind palace in bright yellow spray paint.  He gave Sherlock a reason to go on, to be a better person.  It had been seven months after John had moved in, just before Moriarty had struck for the first time, that Sherlock realised he hadn’t once thought about a particular 7% solution.  He hadn’t wandered the streets at night, near where he knew dealers were to see if he could resist the pull.  He hadn’t been so out of his mind that he had craved a fix.  Sure, he had been bored, but there had always been a distraction, just out of the corner of his eye. A woollen clad, five foot seven distraction with dishwater blonde hair.  And now that distraction wasn’t here.  It was 674 miles away diagnosing dull patients in a dull clinic before it went back to its dull apartment.  But it was alive, and that is why Sherlock had to continue. 

Sherlock had to stop thinking about John.  It was interfering with the work.  So much so that he was convinced he kept seeing him. In Australia he thought he had seen John in a horribly cheerful red shirt and shorts, but was too busy on his way to a meeting with Bartem to pay attention to illusions. In the States he thought he had glimpsed him at the airport, watching the TV in a small café but got distracted by Mycroft yelling at him through the phone because he was running so late that he had missed his plane, even in Haiphong he thought he had seen him walking down near one of the parks, but by the time he had moved closer to get a look the John clone had disappeared.  It just wouldn’t do to get distracted.  He had work to do.

He stood up, went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He frowned at the image before him.  Auburn hair.  It was not in the slightest bit appealing, especially when it had been combed back, straight.  He sighed.  It was far better than what he was about to do to it.

Two hours later he emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered with white blonde hair and matching eyebrow. (They were hardly noticeable)  He looked even more ridiculous.  At least the auburn had some character.  He had to give Molly credit for teaching him how to colour his hair and tint eyebrows.  The information had been priceless.

For some reason Intel had told Gerhardt that he would be meeting up with an albino.  This had Mycroft written all over it.  At least his complexion fell in with that character.  He pulled the small white capsule out of his toiletry bag and removed the contact lenses, inserting them over his own irises.  The person looking back at him wasn’t him.  It was a ridiculously pale, light blue eyed stranger.  It was exactly what he was going for. 

Sherlock sighed and went back to his room.  For the next three days he was Jacques Pierre, Assistant to Judge Louis Allard, and he was here to view the merchandise.  Just the thought of it left Sherlock feeling ill.  His first meeting was to happen in just under three hours.  Here he would speak with Gerhardt and hopefully come off as trustworthy enough to warrant a viewing the following day, where he would be able to find out where the victims were being kept. 

~o~

Eight hours later Sherlock returned to the hotel and went straight to the shower where he scrubbed himself in hot water.  He had met Elmar Gerhardt and had instantly disliked him.  He had the face of a greasy obese snake, his beady eyes watching Sherlock’s every move.

When Sherlock had arrived at Elmar’s place of work he had been frisked, checking for weapons and wires, and found clean and then lead to a large office where Gerhardt was waiting for him with a slimy reptilian smile on his face. He had greeted Sherlock, (Jacques) as if they were old friends.  They had chatted about life, about France, about Germany.  Sherlock had accepted the whisky that had been poured without his consent then they had gotten down to business.  Unlike Dung, Gerhardt didn’t offer the merchandise by the hour.  He sold them to people wanting a permanent live in slave.  And the price was high.  All of his stock, (Sherlock had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from deducing Gerhardt right from his ridiculous toupee down to his habit of using the young male _stock_ when they first come in and then waiting a while and selling them off as unused before flinging him out of the twenty seventh story window), were between the ages of three and sixteen.  After that they were of no use to his particular clientele.  He had then shown Sherlock a catalogued sample of his wares.

_‘See anything you like?’ he had asked._

_It was all Sherlock could do to keep his voice calm and steady. ‘This is not for me, it is for my boss.  I will pass on to him what you offer.  I am sure he will be impressed.’_

Gerhardt had then gone over contracts and pricing and then proceeded to _small talk_ again. Once the ordeal was over Sherlock had headed straight back to the hotel.

 As he exited the shower the hotel phone rang.  It was reception.  A letter had been left for him at the front desk.  Someone would bring it up straight away.  And they did.  It was a plain white envelope, good quality paper, sealed with his (Jacques’) name elegantly scrawled in red fountain pen across the front.

Apparently Gerhardt had trusted _Jacques_ enough to agree for Sherlock to view the _stock_.  He opened up the envelope.  7am the following morning.  An escort would be by to pick him up.

Sherlock relayed the information onto Mycroft’s men.  They would tail him.  While there Sherlock would set up one final meeting with Elmar Gerhardt, one where, not Sherlock but the sniper would be present and then the German authorities could go in and remove the children from bowels of hell.

~o~

Sherlock felt sick.  He was sure his skin was paler than normal and he had had to place his hands in his pockets so Gerhardt would not see them shaking, out of anger, disgust?  Both.

In the dank cellar, in a non-descript house in the outer suburbs of Berlin, stood at least twenty children.  Surely not one of them could be over the age of ten.  They were only barely healthy and looked (and smelt) like they had bathed in some time.  (Gerhardt had assured him that whomever he picked for his boss would be scrubbed up before the transaction was finalised.  This had earned a glare from Sherlock.  However Gerhardt took it, he didn’t care.)  The ones on the left were apparently unused.  They were the crème of the crop and all very young.  The ones on the right had been purchased from other traders or had been returned from previous clients.  They were used goods.

The room was eerily quiet.  Even the youngest children had been taught not to make a noise and Sherlock was sure he felt a part of his heart break.  Sherlock had hated the kids he grew up with.  They were bullies and they were stupid, but that hadn’t stopped him from having a good childhood.  He had been loved and encouraged and safe.  Now he appreciated children.  They were curious and honest and clean slates, ready and open to learn anything. But these children had lived a life of pure misery.  Of pain.  Of despair.  This should happen to no-one, especially not children.

“So, you like that one” Gerhardt purred, (who knew a snake could purr), pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts and he found that he had been staring at a little boy, on the right hand side, no older than four years old.  He was short, but broad and had a head of dirty blonde hair.  The knitted jumper he wore was too big and, although was brown with dirt and grime now, had once been white and red striped.  His blue eyes looked up at Sherlock, pleading.  Whether it was to take him away or not to hurt him Sherlock wasn’t sure.  Sherlock blinked back the tears threatening to break free.

“I do believe I have already informed you, that I am looking for my boss.  These children are of no use to me.”  Sherlock was surprised that his voice came out steady and confident.  He owed it to the anger he was feeling which was over riding the disgust by a long shot.

Less than a minutes later he had made a decision. 

Gerhardt was going to die tonight. 

He didn’t deserve an extra day on this Earth.  If Mycroft wouldn’t pull the sniper in then Sherlock would do it himself, Mycroft’s men be damned.   Sherlock would have done it then and there, but he was unarmed and Gerhardt was flanked by two huge, heavily armed body guards with two more waiting outside.  Trying anything now would result in nothing but Sherlock being buried in a shallow grave somewhere isolated.

He pointed to a young girl on the left hand side, approximately 7 years, red hair and freckles.  “Her” he said and spun around and left the cellar. 

Upstairs Sherlock was lead into a small office where the necessary contracts (consider it a form of insurance) were signed. (That paper trail again.  Sherlock wondered if he would be so keen on it all if he had known that it was this exact thing that had lead Sherlock to them in the first place.)  The money/merchandise transaction would be made later that night.  Gerhardt was pleased that Jacques was so eager to finalise and would personally oversee this particular transaction, due to the generous bonus that _Louis Allard_ would be contributing.  Sherlock was counting on it.  As soon as the escort had taken Sherlock back to Luckenwalde he phoned his brother.

“The hit is tonight” Sherlock said before his brother could greet him.

“Sherlock, the plan, we need to stick,…”

“Fuck the plan.  If you had seen what I just saw you would also move the job to tonight.”  Sherlock was angry and Mycroft knew it. 

There was a sigh at the other end of the phone.

“The transaction is taking place at ten o’clock tonight.  If you don’t get your man onto it I will do it myself.”  There wasn’t much in this world that could wind Sherlock up like this so he knew that Mycroft knew he was serious. 

Another sigh, then “Fine.  I will arrange it.  Send me the details.”

Sherlock hung up and did just that then went into the bathroom to take another scalding hot shower.

11:30 that night he received a message. 

 

_Target plus two dead at the scene.  Girl unharmed._

_Houses have been cleared, with occupants moved to a suitable facitlity._

_Target’s files and data have been commandeered and being analysed as we speak in order to locate other houses._

_Proper authorities will be informed._

_Well done._

_M_

 

Sherlock, hair back to normal colour, slept that night and he didn’t dream.

~o~

Three months had passed.  Eighteen more people had been removed from Moriartys/Morans, (or as Sherlock had dubbed it MorMor’s), web.  That made twenty-four in total.  Moran must be feeling it by now.  Sherlock had just returned from setting up a meeting with the boss of a New York crime ring.  Unfortunately for that to happen he had had to infiltrate a gang of skin heads.  He looked in the bathroom mirror and winced again. 

Sherlock wasn’t an overly vain man, but he most certainly did not suit a shaved head, and he had had to try three times before actually running the clippers through his curls, not able to bring himself to do it the first two times.  The thought of John’s reaction to the final results were what made Sherlock finally pull through and clip the dark locks from his head.  He imagined John laughing at how ridiculous it was.  It seemed like a lifetime since he had seen John smile.  Even in his memories lately John had been only marginally less miserable than what he had been the last time that he had seen him in London.

Sherlock wondered what John was doing now.  Mycroft hadn’t told him much.  Only that he was still working the same job he had been when Sherlock left London.  He hadn’t been dating, as far as Mycroft was aware, (this made Sherlock feel good), and he hadn’t seen any of his old friends, although every now and then he did keep in contact with them.  This left Sherlock not feeling too good.  John needed company.  He deserved company.  Good friends.  Mycroft had also rattled on about Molly, Mrs Hudson, someone called Gregory and Lestrade, but Sherlock had stopped listening after he stopped talking about John.

Sherlock flopped down on the dingy single mattress in this poor excuse for a motel room.  He hadn’t slept under the covers for fear of what he might catch.  He had broken into a more upmarket hotel to use the shower facilities in one of their unused rooms after meeting with Gary and Nicko and Buster (People said his name was ridiculous).  Mycroft had wanted him fitting in well with the gang so there was no nice hotel for him this time round.  It was either this poor excuse for habitable accommodation or bunk at one of their houses.  Sherlock hadn’t even had to think about what option to choose.

The meeting with Aaron Mercutio was to take place in a disused parking lot tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the evening.  In the last three and a half months Sherlock had seen more than enough parking lots, warehouses, abandoned houses, cellars, attics, storerooms and piers to last him a life time.  Unfortunately he had a feeling that there was plenty more to come.

Sherlock had tried to get the venue changed.  Abandoned parking lots did not offer many vantage points for the sniper.  Who knows, maybe tomorrow would be the day he failed.  So far he had stepped up to every challenge, but they had all been easy.  Sherlock still didn’t trust him.  Not 100%, despite Mycroft’s reassurances.  No one was as loyal or as good as what Mycroft believed this man to be. 

Sherlock tapped out an email to Mycroft, explaining the dilemma of the parking lot and advised that he should probably call his man off, and to go after Mercutio at a later time.

Mycroft responded with a message telling him not to worry about his man. He trusted his abilities.

Sherlock thought no more about it and got to work on the next string in MorMor’s web.  A Nigerian man named Toben Chukwu.

 

Just past midnight on Christmas day, Sherlock received an email.

 

_Mercutio and three men dead.  Hostage retrieved from situation.  She claims a man in black walked up to the scene and shot all three men before they had a chance to react.  He used one of the men’s phones to break the hour silence rule to tell us that the job was done and that there was a young woman waiting for assistance, who may possibly be in shock.  He would be waiting with her until our men arrived.  When they got there he was gone and the phone had been dismantled and the individual pieces smashed to bits.  The young hostage told my men that her rescuer had left the back way after he heard them approaching._

_Merry Christmas,_

_M_

 

Sherlock read the email twice. Maybe he was as good as Mycroft said.  Maybe better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hoping to get chapters up more regularly as I have a 2 week break from uni and want to use the study free time wisely :)


	6. 5 - Seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing Sherlock's ghost all over the world opens John's eyes to see, too late, what was in front of him all along.

It had been twelve months since John had left London.  So far he had visited every continent at least twice, visited over twenty countries, had seven different identities and removed thirty seven pieces of scum from the face of the Earth.  They had been drug smugglers, weapon dealers, people traffickers, money launderers, terrorists, organ harvesters, blackmailers.  Some had been common people with no education, others had been politicians and one had been a prince.  They had been a mixture of female and male.  So far the youngest had been 17, Michael Tarver and the oldest 79, a Donald Clarke, computer hacker from New Zealand.  John had stopped seeing them as individuals a long time ago.  Now they all blurred into one image and it was an image that John didn’t give any thought to.  At least not until he was asleep.  The nightmares didn’t come every night.  In fact, they happened a lot less then he thought they would.  They were more frequent than his nightmares of Afghanistan, but not even as close to being as frequent as his nightmares of Sherlock.  On the very rare occasion his sub-conscious decided to be really nasty and rolled all three nightmares into one big nightmare.  The first time that had happened John had woken up and barely made it to the bathroom where he spent the next fifteen minutes evacuating the contents of his stomach.  But most nights there was nothing.

Just that empty feeling that still stayed with John.

It had been fifteen months and two weeks, yesterday that Sherlock had stepped off the roof of St Barts.  Fifteen months and two weeks that he had held his friends limp wrist in his hand, the absence of a pulse screaming at him as he watched his friends blood trickle down the cracks in the pavement.

John stared up at the ceiling in the dark.  Sisimiut was cold this time of year.  Fuck, wasn’t Greenland cold every time of the year?

It was a stark contrast to his first job.  Kalgoorlie, Western Australia.  He had sent Harry and Mrs Hudson a post card just to let him know he was okay.  Every few months he did that.  He knew Mrs Hudson, especially, would worry.  Harry would have to be sober for more than twenty four hours in order to actually give a shit.  Why he had bothered he wasn’t sure.  He hadn’t spoken to her after she had laughed at the fact that John was ‘ _actually mourning over that arrogant twat._ ’

Mycroft had informed him that Greg had been given an excuse for his abrupt departure.  In fact, on the very few occasions that Mycroft had made contact with John, always via telephone, he had updates on Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade, always filling him in on cases that he thought John would enjoy.  This was highly unusual behaviour from Mycroft.  Not only was he paying attention to cases, but he thought John would appreciate them.  Sometimes it was almost as if he was reading from a script that was written by Greg himself.  John knew that Mycroft knew who Greg was.  He had done a full personal background search on anyone remotely connected to his brother, and probably searched their immediate and extended families also, but if John didn’t know any better he would say that the Iceman sounded slightly thawed when he spoke about _Gregory Lestrade’s_ cases.

John closed his eyes and listened to the noises around him.  It was past midnight and traffic was practically non-existent.  The heater hummed as it blew hot air into the room.  The people in the room next to him had stopped having sex just over half an hour ago, now he could hear the bed creak every time one of them rolled over.  Other than that it was silent. 

John opened his eyes.  It was still dark.  Still black.  Empty.

His next job was to take place at nine o’clock tomorrow night...well, tonight.  That left all of the day to do nothing in.  To lie low and act touristy.  That would involve going out and John didn’t want to do that.  If he did that he would see Sherlock.  He always saw Sherlock.  Sometimes dressed as an everyday person, jeans and tee-shirt.  Other times he was dressed like a construction worker or a train conductor.  If he went out tater today he would probably see him down at the ports dressed as a god damn fisherman, and who knew what colour his hair would be….black, brown, red, blonde, white…blue…yes, he had seen that too.  Facial hair, no facial hair.  But most of the time he looked like Sherlock.  Tall, dark brown curls, impeccable suit and ridiculous coat.  Those hurt the most because they couldn’t be passed as someone who looked a bit like Sherlock.  They were his mind playing cruel tricks on him even after all this time.  He has been dead for over a year and for some reason he couldn’t let him go.  Twelve months of playing vigilante had done nothing.  He still felt empty.

And they still had no idea where Moran was.  It was only realistic that he knew what was happening by now.  Whether he knew who was behind it was harder to determine, but at least if he knew John was behind it, John wasn’t staying in one place long enough to be tracked down easily.

John gave up on sleep.  He got up and had a shower and got dressed and went for a run.  Something he had picked up again since starting this ridiculous part of his life.  He had also taken to other PT exercises he thought he had left behind in the Army.  Sit up’s, push up’s, pull ups, burpie’s, crunches and anything else that took his fancy whenever he had time to kill in the privacy of his hotel room.  Despite running through the streets of London, following a mad man in a black coat, he had never reached the level of fitness he had attained while serving in the army.  He was pretty damn close now.

An hour later he returned to the hotel.  Apart from feeling a bit more fatigued nothing had changed except for the fact that he needed another shower.

He emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist and rummaged through his bag for clean clothes.  He really needed to locate a laundromat.  Maybe that could be his task for the day.

He pulled out a pair of jeans and a jumper and a familiar blue scarf.  He still wore it, unless the weather was extremely hot.  It no longer smelt of Sherlock.  John had sat in his hotel room and downed a bottle of whisky after he had discovered that fact.  It had been cheap whisky while he had been in Syria and the hangover had been brutal.  But he still wore it and it was still warm.

John sat at the small table the room offered and opened the file on his next hit.  Sara Ane Enoksen. 43 year old shipping merchant.  Owns several ships that bring supplies into Sisimiut and takes supplies out.  Along with weapons and drugs and anything else for the right price.  She wasn’t picky.  Who knew it would be so easy in a town with a population under 6 000.  Maybe that is what the appeal was.  No one would suspect.  That is what their mole was for.  Looking in places no one else would think of.   _Just like someone else I used to know_.  John looked back to the photo, refusing to think about Sherlock.  She was attractive.  A year older than him, round face, soft eyes, red hair cut into a stylish bob, faint traces of lines around her eyes and mouth.  She was what his mother would have called aging gracefully. Her business supplied what must be, by now, much needed funds to the dread – pirate- Moriarty’s empire.

John shut the file.  He didn’t want to read about her family.  He had stopped reading about those months ago.  He didn’t need to become familiar or personal with these people.  He just needed to know that they were evil people who destroyed others for money or power or some jumped up belief that they felt the need to force onto others.  They were funding Moran to carry on Moriarty’s work.  He just needed the basics and that was it.  To be honest, he would have been happy without their names.  Just a photo and what it was they did.  John needed that.  He needed to be able to justify taking a life. 

John closed the file and stood up.  It was still only five o’clock.  It was going to be a long day.

~o~

John was down at the docks.  He had set up in the bell tower of a small church by the sea, not that there was a bell in there anymore.  It had been converted into storage space, and was in the perfect location to view the port Sara’s ship would be entering.  He had been informed that she was personally overseeing this shipment.  The church was close enough that he would get a good view and a good shot of the docs, but far enough for him to be able to be gone before anyone had realised what had happened.

He looked around the room as he waited, cautiously keeping his torch beam low and away from the windows.  There were shelves full of what John assumed were bibles and children’s stories, a crucifix and a backdrop for what John guessed was used in their Christmas play amongst other things neatly filled the room.  Once upon a time John would have thought twice about using a church as a vantage point to kill someone.  These days he didn’t care.  Not one little bit. His watched beeped 845.  He lay down on the table he had set up in front of the window and settled behind his rifle, sighting the docks.  The visibility wasn’t the best and the lighting was poor but Mycroft only supplied the best equipment (even if some of the accommodation had been as dodgy as hell) and sighting his target would be a hell of a lot easier for it.  He swept the view along the docks just as a car pulled up and out stepped one Sara Enoksen, ten minutes early.  How nice of her.  John lined her up in his sight, cursing the light snowfall that had started two hours ago.  He took into account the wind speed and direction and pulled the trigger, just as she stepped back.

The bullet hit the post next to her, splinters of wood flying into the air.

“Fuck”

Sara was alert to the fact that someone was trying to kill her.  Quickly she got back into her car.  John had one chance as the engine started.  If he messed this up they may never find her again.  He lined the site up with the reversing car and guessing more than gauging, what with the dark, the snow and the tinted windows on the car, pulled the trigger again.  There was the cracking of broken glass and then the car plunged back into another vehicle.  Two burley looking men ran to the car and pulled the door open.  The wind carried the sounds of yelling up to where John was sitting.  He couldn’t make out any words, and even if he could, he didn’t speak Greenlandic very well.  But John couldn’t leave.  He needed to know if he had been successful.  Eventually one of the men pulled Sara out of the car.  John didn’t know why, nor did he care, but it gave him the confirmation he needed.  Even from this distance, and in these conditions he could see that the bullet had entered her skull.  She was dead.  And it was time for John to leave.  It wouldn’t take long for them to realise what direction the bullets had come from.  Quickly and quietly he packed up and left the church.

He made it to the hotel and packed, making his way to the small airfield.  There had been no ghosts this trip.

~o~

A week later John was in Holland.  His next target was a twenty three year old black mailer of sorts.  Her father was a senator and she knew all of her father’s work colleague’s dirty little secrets.  She would sell these secrets to the highest bidder.  The result usually ends up as “ _SOLD - to the batshit crazy Irish man in the back wearing the Westwood_ ”…well, at least his successor anyway who would then use said secrets against those people in order to get them to do what he wanted them to do.  Sherlock’s ghost made an appearance again.  Outside of a museum.  John saw it as he was looking out of a window, in the middle of a throng of people crossing a road.  He turned away from the window and focused his attention back on Vermeer’s _The Milkmaid._ Not that that helped at all.

~o~

Three days later John was back in the last place he thought he would ever be.  Afghanistan.  Kunduz to be exact.  It is still hot and dusty and fucking horrible, and of course he was taking out a drug lord.  What the fuck else. 

Despite hating the place John felt more at home there then he had in a long time.  At least he understood the language.  But there really was fuck all to do in Kunduz.  There were the mosques, which John had seen.  There were the markets where you can barter for fruit and veg and souvenirs and embroideries.  And rugs.  There were so many rugs.  He did find a nice tablecloth and purchased it for Mrs Hudson as a Christmas present.  As he was making his purchase John looked up and to the left to see a familiar figure adjust the cloth around his head before stepping from the street into a crumbling building.  John didn’t follow.  He stopped following when every time it turned out to be someone else.  It was always someone else.  Sherlock was dead.  Instead John finalised his purchase and decided to wait until he was in a country with a more reliable postal system before sending it onto Baker Street.

~o~

Nine days later saw John in Debrecen, Hungary.  It was quite a pretty city and if John wasn’t there to kill someone he would have quite enjoyed his time there.  Instead he was there to put an end to the reign of terror caused by Miklos Szabo.  Miklos was, so far, John’s youngest target at 16 years of age and already running the family’s drug business and possibly responsible for the death of _at least_ six people.  It is there that John see’s the most convincing ghost yet.  As he drives past in a taxi a familiar figure is standing by the road, holding out his hand to signal another taxi.  John received a full view of the face and instantly feels all of the colour drain from his own. 

“It was not him.  It was not him.  It was not him” he chanted over and over again, quietly, in the back seat of the taxi.  The driver gave him a funny look via the rear view mirror, but John paid him no attention.  Instead he focused on getting his breathing under control and his heart beat at a lower speed.

That night he forgets about the almost perfect ghost as he slits the throat of a sixteen year old monster.

~o~

A month later John found himself turning down a rather gorgeous looking Russian girl in Moscow in favour of taking out a businessman who was using his influence (threats) to sell lucrative business to a silent partner (Moriarty & Co) at stupidly low prices, only to be sold at a later date for their actual value while retaining 45% of the fee himself.  Moran must have been desperate if that was the line he was going down.  Well, soon that line would come to an end as well.  At precisely 8:30 that night in fact.  And for that reason John cannot take the lovely Natalya out, and he felt no loss at that.  That had not been the first time he had felt no loss at not being able to date.  John hadn’t been interested after Sherlock’s death.  A few months after he had started this mission John decided to take a Japanese girl up on her offer of dinner.  He didn’t enjoy himself.  She was lovely and sweet and hot, but John spent the night noticing things he didn’t really like about her.  Her hair was too dark and too straight.  He left alone that night.  

In Sweden he had tried again, but he found thinking that Ellen's lips were not full or defined enough.

As John walked back to his room, after turning down Natalya he decided that she was not tall enough and had too many curves.  That thought made him stop in his tracks, his key card mid swipe.  Where had that come from?  She was his height.  He didn’t like tall women, and he loved curves. They were comfortable.  He swiped his card again, the green light indicating that the door was unlocked.  John stepped inside and shut the door.  He kept thinking of all the things he had been finding wrong with the women he met and it wasn’t until he was unwrapping the blue cashmere scarf from around his neck that he realised what they were all lacking.

None of them were Sherlock.

In fact, since even before Sherlock had jumped John hadn’t really found anyone attractive.  Not enough to pursue.

Sherlock, he had found attractive, but that was nothing new.  He had thought that the first day they had met.  He had stirred up feelings John hadn’t experienced since his university days, (with the exception of that one guy in his second year in the army). But Sherlock had made it clear that he didn’t do relationships, so John had pushed it aside not sure if he was disappointed or relieved.  He was fond of Sherlock.  The man had been his best friend, despite his annoying habits, lack of people skills and blatant disregard for, well, everything, including his own health.  John had dropped everything for him.  Sherlock had said come and John had followed.  He put up with a lot of crap from Sherlock, way more than he would have put up with from anyone else, he spent most of his free time with Sherlock and genuinely enjoyed his company.  He loved making Sherlock laugh and enjoyed the look on his face when he complimented him.  To be honest on a couple of occasions he had woken up after dreaming about Sherlock, feeling a bit uncomfortable in certain areas.  He had ignored those and rubbed one out in the shower definitely _not_ thinking about his flatmate.  He had looked after Sherlock, had his back.  Well, at least he thought he had.  That was until Last June when John couldn’t help him.  He didn’t have his back then.  He had let Sherlock down in the worst possible way. 

John scrubbed at his cheeks, banishing the tears.  He hadn’t cried in so long and he wasn’t about to start now.  He finished unwrapping the scarf and threw it on the bed feeling deflated and pathetic.  Three continents Watson couldn’t pull a woman because he was still grieving his best friend who he may have had the hots for at one stage.  That wasn’t normal.  That was more reminiscent of someone losing a lover.  Again John stopped in his tracks on his way to the bathroom.  John had heard of these moments, moments where you found yourself finally staring back at something that had been staring at you your whole life.  Well, at least for just over two and a half years anyway.  That first night John had been hooked.  He agreed to view a flat with someone he didn’t know.  The second night he had not only agreed to move in but had shot a man to save this new acquaintance.  When Moriarty had strapped him to a bomb John had disregarded his own safety to tell Sherlock to run.  (Of course the git didn’t.) He had been insanely jealous when Irene Adler had made an appearance and had been perfectly okay with sharing a room at Baskerville.  John got angry and frustrated with Sherlock on a regular basis, (most people had), but he had always gone back to him, every time. 

John sunk to the floor as sudden realisation hit him.  He had loved Sherlock Holmes.  He still did, and he would never be able to let him know.

John cried.  Over fifteen months of feeling hollow and empty John finally felt something and he hated it.  It was anger and regret and it sat in his gut twisting and pulsating.  He pulled his knees up against his chest, hugging them as close as he could, burying his face into them and he cried like he hadn’t since he was a small child. He hadn’t cried like that since his dad had died, leaving him in the sole care of an uncaring, alcoholic mother. 

Twenty minutes later the sobs had stopped but he hadn’t moved.  He didn’t want to move.  He was exhausted.  He had two hours before he had to leave.  He needed to pull himself together.  Taking a few more deep breaths John gathered himself and stood up.  He got ready and left with his tool bag.  As always the keys to his hire car were waiting at the desk.  He headed off towards Khimki Forest.

John worked on Automatic.  The anger and regret had been put to good use as he took down a key player in helping fund Moran.  He had taken the man down, stupidly standing out in the open waiting for a contact that wasn’t coming.  It was over in less than 30 seconds.  John packed up and headed back to the hotel.

As the taxi drove to the airport John viewed his regular ghost standing outside a hotel, his back to the road.  John’s heart didn’t stop, he didn’t feel a pang of hurt.  He felt angry.  Angry at Sherlock for pushing John away.  Angry at Moriarty for forcing Sherlock’s hand.  But mostly Angry at himself.  Angry because he had been too much of a coward to see what had been before him the whole time.  Angry for not getting the chance to explore what he felt.  As John’s taxi pulled up to the airport John decided that he was no longer doing this for Sherlock.  Sherlock was gone, and his memory wouldn’t appreciate it.  John was now doing this for himself.  For chances he will never be able to make.  He couldn’t take his anger out on Moriarty.  Moriarty had been more of a coward than what John had, but he could take his anger out on Moran.  When he finally got to Moran it wouldn’t be quick and painless like all of the other hits.  It would be slow and painful, like Quyen Huu Dung in Haiphong, but much, much worse.


	7. 6 - Misreading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been away too long and the stress of it is starting to get to him. Unfortunately this leads to mistakes being made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one this time!

Sherlock laid on the hotel bed, biting onto the pillow as he stopped himself from crying out in pain.  The doctor was being as gentle as possible but nothing, short of anesthetising him (which he outright refused) was going to stop the pain lancing through his body as she carefully cleaned and stitched the gouges down his back. 

Sherlock thought he finally had Moran’s location while infiltrating a terrorist cell in Odžaci but had been too slow in escaping with the information.  Serbian terrorist had closed in on him and taken him hostage.  Luckily Mycroft knew who he had been setting up and it had only taken two days to find his exact location.  Once Sherlock’s location had been confirmed and it was safe to move in Mycroft’s sniper had taken out the few guards surrounding the old bunker and within minutes of the first terrorist falling Mycroft was pulling him out of that hell-hole, but not before they had taken whips and hooks to his back, razor wire to his ankles and lit cigarettes to the souls of his feet in order to extract information from him.  Information that he had not given as he had retreated in to the John wing of his mind palace. And although he could feel the pain, and screamed when steel cut through flesh and searing heat blistered through the layers of his epidermis, he didn’t talk, because John was there comforting him.

So Mycroft and his team retrieved Sherlock, making sure there were no other survivors, and brought him back to the hotel where a nice young doctor was gently patching him up.  Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears that were freely falling down his face now, but they weren’t because of the scarred flayed flesh on his back.  They were because it should be John here, patching him up.  Sherlock would have lain there, bleeding, while Mycroft got John to Serbia, but instead he had brought this woman, who, despite being kind and gentle and thorough, she was not what Sherlock had needed at all. 

It had been eighteen months since Sherlock had been forced to kill himself.  Fifteen months since he had seen John.  It had been too long.  He now just wanted to go home.

The doctor muttered something to Sherlock but he didn’t hear her.  A few seconds later there were several sharp pricks along his back and then the area started to numb.  Although he couldn’t feel the pain, he could feel the movement as she stitched up the longest gash on his back.  That particular one had hurt quite a bit, especially when the lead interrogator had kept pushing his thumb into it, trying to provoke information out of Sherlock through pain.  Instead Sherlock had pulled up what strength he had and told the bastard that his wife was cheating on him with not only the neighbour, but also the local coffin maker.  Sherlock had no idea if it were true or not but the moron had obviously believed it and had left in order to go catch his wife in the act of cheating.  From what Mycroft had told him, the interrogator hadn’t made it two steps out of the bunker before the sniper had put a bullet in his head.  That was when Mycroft had come in and taken him away.  The fact that Mycroft had come, personally to get Sherlock out had not been lost on Sherlock, even through all of the pain he was currently in.  Sherlock would be forever in his debt, but surprisingly, he didn’t mind.

A cool cloth was wiped over his brow and Sherlock looked up to see his brother standing over him, a concerned look on his face.  Sherlock held out his hand weakly and Mycroft latched onto it.  Even in his exhausted daze Sherlock knew that neither of them would speak of this act of brotherly love for as long as they both should live, but the only other person who could comfort Sherlock right now wasn’t there.  Couldn’t be there.  So Sherlock was thankful for Mycroft’s presence.

~o~

Sherlock winced as he tried to get comfortable in the world’s most uncomfortable chair. Most of the stitches in his back had been removed but there was still a rather stubborn wound that refused to heal quickly and it pinched every time he moved.  But it was fine.  The pain was keeping him focused on this particularly boring evening.  He was surrounded by Parisian elite.  Mycroft had somehow managed to get him a last minute invitation to a charity ball for sick children.  Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what ailment they were supporting, nor did he care, he just needed to get a chance to run up to Lady Eleanor Dubois office and transfer files from her computer onto his phone.  Unfortunately for him that first meant sitting through this boring dinner trying to figure out who else was behind the scam.  The charity was a front.  They were really funding MorMor’s operation in turn for small favours whenever the need would arise. Someone needed to disappear here, a rape charge needed to be dropped there, those sorts of favours.  So far Sherlock was convinced that most of these people knew what the charity was really for.  The information on that computer was going to be like striking gold.  There were so many people in this room who deserved to be brought down a peg or two and Mycroft’s sniper wouldn’t even be needed.  As soon as it was made public what they had been doing the shame of it would drive over half of them to take their own lives.  No loss, really.  There were too many stiff-upper-lipped toffs in the world as it was.  And Sherlock knew.  He had been brought up in that world, despite his parent’s casual attitude to life.

Finally the meal was over and they were all ushered into the ballroom. To keep face Sherlock had danced with two women, from noble families, ignoring the sharp pain on his back as they placed their hand right over the healing gash and then, when he was sure no one was watching, he slunk out of the ballroom and made his way up the stairs to where he knew the Lady’s office was.  It took less than twenty seconds to unlock the door and then he was in.  The room was softly lit by a corner lamp, which suited Sherlock fine.  It just meant he didn’t have to turn on any lights, which would in turn possibly attract unwanted attention. 

Twenty minutes later he was frustratingly trying to recall what Eleanor had said about the rodent looking creature she called her dog.  It was obviously the password to her computer, there were photos of the damned animal everywhere.  She spoke more fondly of the animal than she did her husband or any of her children, but Sherlock had let his mind wander.  This had been happening too often lately.  He had to stay focused.  Serbia had taught him nothing _except_ to stay focused, but still, lately, his mind tended to wander.  He stepped back from the PC on the desk and shut down all external stimuli, focusing on every interaction he had with Lady Dubois over the past three hours.  Unfortunately there was more than what he would have liked.  Not ten minutes later his eyes snapped open and he quickly moved back to the desk and typed in _Chaucer_ , praying it was correct.  He had already tried twice and got it wrong.  One more incorrect entry and an alert would be sent to Eleanor’s security.  Sherlock almost cried out in glee when the computer screen sprung to life.  It was the wallpaper that stopped that cry from escaping.  It was little Chaucer in a sun visor, being pushed around in a little doggy cart with a bright orange umbrella over his head to shield him from the sun.  Sherlock scowled at the ridiculous picture and then got to work.  Within fifteen minutes all of the information that he had needed was transferred to his phone and was being sent to Mycroft.  The wallpaper had also been changed to a picture of a dog that looked a lot like cute little Chaucer being consumed by a rather large python.  Technology was a wonderful thing. 

Feeling pleased with himself Sherlock pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up, standing at the window, looking over the dark gardens.  He puffed the smoke out of the window.  Eighteen and a half months and he had tried quitting smoking five times. He had picked the habit up again this time after the incident in Serbia.  He finished the cigarette, stubbing the end out on the window sill and then leaving the rest of the packet next to the new burn mark in the dark brown wood he made his way back downstairs and out into the cold night air without anyone seeing him.

~o~

Sherlock looked at the bottle of beer in his hand.  He hated beer, but since he had started this mission he had been buying John’s favourite brand whenever he could find it and indulged (suffered) through one after every case.  It was a ritual that held him close to what he had left behind.

He took a swig.  “Gottle o’ geer” he murmured as he looked at the bottle on the table in front of him, remembering the night that Sherlock had first started to realise what he felt for John. 

_It wasn’t until John had stepped out of that change room.  For a split second Sherlock had thought that John was Moriarty and had been playing him all along, but then his mind kicked in and he realised that John was too good for that.  He would never have hurt all of those people, physically or psychologically, so it was something else then.  When he saw the semtex vest all feeling had drained from his upper extremities._

“Gottle o’ geer” he murmured again as he pulled the bottle up to his mouth.

 _When he realised that with just a push of a button or a pull of a trigger John would be no more everything about the doctor had whirled around in his head and it all clicked together.  How he hadn’t seen it before he would never know.  John had been living with him for months and Sherlock,_ Sherlock _, hadn’t worked it out. Not until right then, when it all could have ended._

“Gottle o…”  The rim of the bottle stopped against his lips, tipped up just enough for the now room temperature liquid to hit his closed lips and then swish back into the bottle. 

Ariel was left handed.  Sherlock gulped down the lump that was forming in his throat.  He looked back at the meeting he had had, just a few hours ago, with the head of a major weapons supplier in MorMor’s network.  She had two hearing aids in.  An accident as a young child had seriously damaged her hearing, she had told him. 

When he was detailing arrangements for their next shipment of weapons her left hand had let go of the pen she was using and adjusted the small, discreet hearing aid.  “What?” she had asked quietly, but not looked at Sherlock.  When she did look up at him with a smile she told him that there had been problems with her left hearing aid lately.  Interference of some kind.  Then she had picked up the pen again, in her left hand, and continued making notes in her ledger.

But the head of this weapons operation hadn’t been left handed.  He had seen samples of his writing in innocently worded coded letters to suppliers and customers.  It was definitely a right handed scrawl.   He ran through the memory of the meeting with Ariel in his head taking in every detail that he could.  He had been slipping lately, since Serbia, trying to push things faster.  Nineteen months away from John had been too much and he just wanted to go home, but this could delay things.  He ran over details of the room where they had had their meeting, there in the background, a photo of Ariel with her son, no hearing aid in her left ear.  Right ear only.

Shit.  She was being told what to say.  She wasn’t the real thing.  She was a fucking decoy. Tipping the chair back in his rush to get up, knocking the half full beer bottle at the same time, Sherlock rushed to the hotel room door, grabbing his coat on the way and heading out into the night, for the first time wishing that Mycroft’s mystery man wasn’t so bloody good.  In his haste to rectify this problem Sherlock didn’t notice that he had left his phone on the cupboard next to his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I really felt the need to put in some brotherly love because I really do believe that those guys do care….a lot….for each other, they are just being dorks about it all!!


	8. 7 - Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on a job John gets a surprise that may just cost him his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, another short one. I promise that they will start to get longer again soon!!!

John got comfortable on the warehouse roof and adjusted his rifle. He looked through the telescopic sight and was glad that the wharf below was lit up like a bloody Christmas tree.  He hadn’t gotten much sleep the last couple of nights and trying to pick these bastards out in minimal light or with night vision was not an overly enticing thought.  He looked through the lens and adjusted it. His target wasn’t present, but he had been assured that she would be there.  John used the site to take in the scene before him.  Three guards and two plain dressed men.  All male.  His target was female, Five foot seven, black hair, cut in a short bob, olive skin, curvy figure.  Ariel Abandonato, head of a weapon smuggling ring.  One of Moriarty’s remaining major weapons supplier.  Not for much longer.  He was here to take her out and then Mycroft’s men would do all the clean-up work, making sure all ties to John were obliterated and the ring would be dismantled.  One more thread in the web gone.

Suddenly one of the security guards, who had been leaning on a beam sucking on a cigarette, dropped the smoke and stood up straight.  John swung the rifle around to the direction the guard was looking at and sure enough, there was Ariel Abandonato, striding towards the borderline obese, plain dressed man on the other side of the wharf.  It was a still night.  The shot would be easy. 

John adjusted the rifle and waited for Ariel to stop as she spoke to the large man.  Words were being passed and they weren’t happy.  Not John’s problem.  He adjusted his finger on the trigger and was just about to pull when there was a commotion below and a tall figure flapped up to them, a black coat billowing out around him, blocking his view of the target. 

“Jesus, fucking Christ” John muttered.  Why did it seem that every country had a great big, lanky, coat wearing tosser?  Well, to be honest it had only been here and London that the coat wearer was a tosser.  The others were just in the background and each one of them, only seen briefly or in his peripheral vision, sent a small clench in his gut and solidified his resolve to continue with the mission.  But now this idiot was fluffing about in front of the person John was currently trying to shoot, his arms flailing about in a horribly familiar fashion.  He didn’t need these reminders right now.  He needed to focus on the work, but at the moment that was impossible.  Every time Ariel tried to move away the man would step in front of her.  It was almost like he was purposely trying to get in between her and John.  Not for the first time John cursed the full silence rule on these cases.  John kept his eye on the man.  They were arguing, and he kept gesturing towards the man that Ariel had been speaking to.  Suddenly all commotion stopped.  Whatever he had told her had made some sort of impact on the woman as she stood stock still.  The silence only lasted less than a minute.  Before John could figure anything out the larger man quickly, (which was surprising for a man of his size), and unexpectedly, had spun the intruder around and forced him on his knees and all feeling in John’s body drained away.  He looked through the site only to pull back and shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut.  He was seeing shit now.  Not enough sleep.  He opened his eyes again and looked back through the lens but he was still there.  It was still definitely Sherlock on his knees, his hands up behind his head as the big guy aimed a gun at his head.  Ariel tried pulling the man away, but he just pushed her aside and continued to aim the gun at Sherlock’s head.  He looked smug about something.  An arrogant, cocky prick and even though John couldn’t hear what the man was saying he knew that he was pleased with himself. 

John still couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  This was impossible.  Sherlock was dead.  John had seen the body, broken and bleeding on the ground.  He felt the absence of a pulse.  He had buried him.  Sherlock Holmes was dead.  This had to be some kind of trick.   Then the man kneeling on the ground looked up, straight to where John was aiming from and he gave a small nod of his head, just like John had when Sherlock had a gun trained on an explosive vest in a darkened swimming pool.

John readjusted the sniper rifle and in less than three seconds the large man had a bullet between his eyes and all hell had broken loose.  Sherlock had risen to his feet and grabbed Ariel and started to run.  Security guards were drawing their weapons.  There was no way that the two of them would make this out alive.  At least, not on their own.  John got the first guard in his sights and fired.  The man fell to the ground.  The second one didn’t last much longer.  The third guard turned and ran, but while John had been tracking him, getting a site on him just as he rounded a corner, the last plain clothes man had taken out a gun and fired in the direction of the two people running away.  John shot, just as the guy below pulled the trigger. 

Frantically John searched for Sherlock using the sniper site.  It didn’t take long to find him.  He had been hit, but it didn’t appear to be bad.  Ariel was trying to help him up, but the bullet had grazed his calf and running was not going to be an easy task, which at the moment was essential. 

The security guard must have called for backup for now there was three other uniformed men heading in their direction.  Carefully, John aimed.  He had to be quick.  Once they knew someone was picking them off they would scatter.  Taking a deep breath John aimed and fired twice.  Two of the guards dropped.  The third ran, but not fast enough.  Just as he would have rounded on Sherlock and Ariel John pulled the trigger one last time and the guard dropped to the ground, twitching twice before falling still.  John scoped the area making sure there were no more threats. It all looked quiet.  John couldn’t see Sherlock, but he could see Ariel, looking around frantically.  John used the site to do another sweep of the area and found Sherlock leaning against a barrel, even from this distance John could see that he was too pale and breathing heavy.  He looked down to his leg.  Jeans.  Sherlock was wearing jeans.  John was only amazed by this fact for a few seconds until he noticed how dark the back of the right leg was.  Blood.  His leg was bleeding.  A lot.  The bullet had obviously more than grazed his leg.  Without another thought John stripped his rifle in record time and packed it in the bag.  Standing up he turned to make his way back to the hatch that would take him back down to the inside of the building.  He had to get to Sherlock and stop the bleeding before more reinforcements arrived. 

John was so preoccupied with the thought of getting to Sherlock that he barely registered the shuffled sound behind him.  Quickly, he turned around but wasn’t quick enough to avoid the fist that collided with the side of his head.  The bag cluttered to the ground as John stumbled back, shaking away the stars that had clouded his vision.  This new man swung for another hit but John was ready for it.  He deflected the hit and then landed one of his own, which wasn’t easy.  The guy was huge.  John dodged two more hits, landing one more of his own.  Unfortunately while this had been happening they had also moved further away from the hatch and closer to the edge of the roof.  Weather this was the giants plan or not John needed to rectify the situation due to the fact that it was he who had his back to the edge of the building.  John stepped to the side, intending to duck under the giants arm but he saw it coming and intercepted the manoeuvre.  John fought back, nearly every hit being blocked and the ones that did hit their mark made little impact.  Just when John thought he had an opening to duck behind Andre the giant was when his luck decided to run out.  His attacker lunged and John tripped on a piece of the debris that littered the roof and slowly he felt himself tip back.  In the comical way that happens in cartoons Johns arms circled twice as he tried to regain his balance but it was no good.  Suddenly there was nothing under him or behind him or anywhere around him.  Not until he hit the ground below and then there was nothing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I am going to have to add another apology here, my little lovelies. It may be a while (as in a few weeks) before I get to post another chapter as apparently life doesn't want to cater for JohnLock time. I do promise that I will be back with more, I shall not leave you hanging for too long. In the mean time, happy reading!!


	9. 8 - Staying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John survived the fall, only just. Now as Sherlock waits for him to regain conciousness he has time to come to terms with what he has actually done to the man in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the next chapter. I do apologise, again, for the time between chapters but I had family stuff to do. Also I have started working on another fic which is also going to take up more of my time. Annnnd uni has started again which will also take up a large portion of my time, especially since I should put in a bit more effort since I only just passed two of my subjects last semester....what can I say, if they didn't make the work so boring I wouldn't get distracted so easily ;)  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the next instalment!

Sherlock struggled against the EM’s.  They were taking John away.  He had just got him back and they were taking him away.  Why weren’t they taking Sherlock with him?  Sherlock lashed out, his elbow hitting a medic in the cheek as they moved the stretcher through a set of double doors, _further away from John_.  The second medic called something out but he didn’t hear over his own shouts, demanding that they take him with John.   He lashed out again, but this time his arm was caught and pinned back down next to him, then there was a prick in his arm.  It was too late to react before Sherlock realised that they had injected him with something.  His high drug tolerance and his determination to fight the drug, adrenaline surging through his body, slowed the effects of whatever they had injected him with but it didn’t stop it and within minutes his vision was fading to black.

~o~

When he came to Sherlock was no longer in A&E or on a stretcher.  He had been moved to a private room and into a hospital bed.  He had an IV drip in the back of his hand, minor surgery on his leg to remove a bullet and repair the damage and there was Mycroft sitting in the chair next to him.

“Shouldn’t you be home, running the country?” Sherlock grumbled squinting against the glaring overhead light.  It was a stark contrast to the way that he accepted his brother’s presence a month ago when he had been taken by the Serbians.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leant towards Sherlock, just slightly, looking mildly irritated. Again - a completely different reaction to a month ago when he had comforted his brother. “Yes, I do have better things to do, but when I get a call telling me that my brother has been shot and one of my men has fallen a great height and only barely managed to survive, those important things need to be put on a temporary hiatus.”

Everything came crashing back down on Sherlock.  The pier, Ariel, the shooter, John.  John, fallen, broken, dying.  They had taken him away from John.

 “John!”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, looking a bit more sympathetic. “He is still in surgery” he told Sherlock quietly.  “He will be for a few more hours.  He suffered extensive injuries.  By all rights, he should be dead.”

Sherlock had to swallow around the lump in his throat in order to be able to talk “What exactly is wrong?”

 “I don’t have the full detail but so far there has been mention of a collapsed lung, shattered collarbone, broken leg and wrist and fractured skull.  He fell onto pallets, as you are aware.  One broke, the wood piercing his abdomen.  I have been told no organs were damaged.”

The words _so far_ got stuck in Sherlock’s head.  _So far_ meant that there could be more. 

“Permanent damage?”  Sherlock asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

“Unknown as of yet.  They won’t know the full extent of the damage until he regains consciousness.”

“So he will regain consciousness then.”  Sherlock felt the smallest ball of hope burn somewhere deep in his abdomen.

Mycroft’s silence spoke volumes.

The hope instantly turned cold and suddenly he was angry.  “He was your sniper all along!”  It wasn’t a question.  It was clearly an accusation.  “I did all of this to keep him safe and you bloody recruited him, Mycroft.  What in the hell were you thinking?”

Mycroft straightened in his chair, looking as arrogant as ever.  “I was thinking of the best man for this mission.  Do you believe my decision was incorrect?”

“I believe your decision was idiotic at best” Sherlock sneered.  “We went through all of that trouble to keep him safe and you threw him to the lions.  Without backup.”

An exasperated sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips and Sherlock held back the impulse to reach over and smack his brother across the head.  “We have been over this Sherlock.  I pulled John in because he was the only one I could fully trust with this mission, therefore he worked alone.  I had faith in his ability, his stamina and his loyalty.  He proved himself in all three areas like I knew he would.”

“And what, he was happy working for you, alone and for me to be working alone?”  Sherlock didn’t believe that for one second unless John truly didn’t trust Sherlock anymore, but that didn’t make sense because he had been trusting Sherlock.  Had done so for sixteen months.

Sherlock didn’t miss the way that Mycroft avoided eye contact when he next spoke.  “He didn’t know.  Until a few hours ago, he believed you were still dead.”

~o~

The only thing Mycroft could think of as he walked out into the warm Italian evening was that for someone who had just come out of three hours of sedation, while having a bullet removed from his leg, Sherlock sure moved quickly.

~o~

Sherlock had pulled his IV out of his hand as he lunged at Mycroft.  He hadn’t let the nurses put it back in.  The bullet wound in his leg was really starting to throb without the drugs being pumped directly into his system.  He had changed back into his clothes and tried to find out what was happening with John, but Italian wasn’t his best language.

Two hours after Mycroft’s visit a surgeon came out to tell Sherlock that John had indeed survived the surgery on his left lung.  Complications had arisen but nothing too serious.

He was shown into John’s room.  At first Sherlock didn’t recognise what - or who - he was seeing. 

John looked so small.  And pale.  There was blood still in his hair, what was showing through the bandages wrapped around his head, he had tubes going down his throat and up his nose.  He had monitors attached to his chest his head and his thumbs no to mention the three bags of IV fluid that were stuck into various parts of his body.

His left shoulder was bandaged, his left arm in a splint and a frame had been placed under the blanket to keep the weight of the material from settling onto his left leg, presumably also splinted.  John must have fallen onto his left side. 

Slowly, not wanting this to be real, Sherlock limped his way to the edge of the bed.  (He had refused the crutches the nurses had offered him.)  He looked down into the face of John Watson.  He had memorised that face, every detail.  Now there were subtle differences.  New additions and alteration.

He had lost weight and his face looked harder, more angled than it had before.  It no longer held the soft roundness that Sherlock had found so comforting.   There were a few more lines and a small scar now run under his chin.  Nothing too serious, but it could have been.  Sherlock estimated it to be about seven months old. ( _The Cypress hit had been face to face, not a distance shot_.)

His torso was now covered in defined muscle which was just wrong.  John should always be rounded and softer.  It was part of his personality, part of his appeal.  It made him look pliant and easy.  It masked the real danger that was contained in his small unassuming form.  It was the perfect camouflage and it was a look Sherlock had come to mean as safe, trusting, home.  Sherlock looked past all of that to the real damage.  John was now also covered in bruises and many small lacerations.  A large dressing ran down his left side, obviously where they had operated on it for five hours repairing the damage from the piece of wood piercing his side and also to fix the lung. A chest tube protruded discreetly next to the bandages.  Several fingers, on both hands, had been splinted and bandaged.  A catheter bag discreetly snuck out from under the blankets and hung on the edge of the bed where it was less likely to be noticed.  The oxygen machine gently and rhythmically inhaled and exhaled for John.  The heart monitor beeping out its own beat.  The sound was all surreally relaxing in an odd way.

Sherlock sunk down into the chair next to the bed, barely registering as the pain in his leg receded slightly as pressure was taken off of it.  He gently scooped John’s hand up in his own and just let it rest in his, not squeezing at all, although he wanted nothing more than to hold onto John, tightly, and never, ever let go again.

~o~

Sherlock didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, letting John’s hand rest in his.  Nurses came and checked his vitals and they left.  To start off with they had tried talking to him, but he didn’t hear them.  He just focused on John, who lay there unmoving.  Unchanging. 

Change of shift came and the head of the next rosters nursing staff tried ordering him out of John’s room.  Sherlock glared at her and pulled up enough Italian to tell her that if she so much as thought about getting Sherlock to move from this spot then the director of the hospital would know about her little drug problem.  She left orders for all of the nursing staff to leave him be.

The day stretched on and the nurses tried to persuade him to eat.  He drank the water they offered him but that was only because they threatened to hook him up to another IV if he didn’t.

The surgeon came in once to monitor John’s progress.  He was happy with the results so far.  Sherlock glared at him.  John was still unresponsive, how could that be progress.

The surgeon explained that John’s body needed to heal.  Between trying to do that and the medication currently coursing through his system it could be another day or two before he woke up, but so far there were no signs of infection, heart rate and oxygen levels were good and brain function was what was to be expected.

In all honesty, John was lucky to be alive.  By all rights he should have died.  The human body was not designed to fall 160 feet. 

“What about walking?” Sherlock had asked.  John would be devastated if he woke up from this without the use of his legs.  He was an active man.  Being wheelchair bound would be a prison sentence. 

The surgeon shrugged.  “We didn’t detect any damage to the spinal cord in any of the x-rays, which is another miracle in itself, but we won’t know for certain until he wakes up.”

Sherlock had no more questions.  He turned his attention back to John and the surgeon took that as his cue to leave.

That night one of the nurses wheeled in a reclining chair with a blanket and pillow for him.  She didn’t say anything, just smiled and left him to it.  A few hours later another nurse brought him a sandwich.  Ham and Cheese by the looks of it.  Again, no words were spoken.  Just kind smiles and a small nod of the head before they left him in peace. 

Sherlock didn’t smile back.  He didn’t want to encourage them.  He didn’t deserve it.  With nothing but the silence Sherlock had nothing to do but think back on past events, and he kept going back to that day where he lay on the pavement in front of St Bart’s, John calling for him, picking up his wrist and crying out when he felt the absence of a pulse.  He thought about the pleading in the morgue to see the body, at how broken he had sounded.  He remembered following him around London for three months, alive but not living.  Sherlock had done that to him.  Sherlock had broken him.  First mentally and now physically.  He was a terrible man.  He hoped John didn’t forgive him for this.  He didn’t deserve it.

The next day practically went on the same as before, except one of the nurses bullied him into the shower.  He had agreed, so long as he could use the shower in John’s room.  They had given him hospital scrubs to wear while they sent his clothes to the hospital laundry to get washed. When they came back they were blood free, smelt of disinfectant and lemon and someone had even patched up the damage caused by the bullet and the doctor cutting the material to be able to access the wound better.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than before.

Sherlock tried to make use of the recliner that had been brought in for him, he was terribly tired, but it couldn’t be manoeuvred close enough that he could still touch John, not with all the medical equipment in the way, so he stayed sitting by John’s side in the small plastic chair.

He woke up on the third day unaware that he had fallen asleep.  His back ached from leaning forward to rest his head on the bed next to John’s hip.  He didn’t care.  Slowly he sat up and stretched, listening to various parts of his body pop and crack.  One of the nurses must have placed a blanket over his shoulders sometime during the night as it slid down and gathered on the chair behind him.

Sherlock looked around.  Everything else was the same except for the ray of sunshine coming through gap in the curtains.  John liked the sun, Sherlock always made sure to leave the curtains open.  Sherlock was just about to take himself to the toilet when the beeping on John’s heart monitor changed.  There is a twitch of his hand and suddenly the steady rhythm started spiking.  Sherlock ran to the corridor and yelled “I need a nurse in here, now.”


	10. 9 - Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in hospital to pain, injury, an alive and well(ish) Sherlock and a head full of mixed up thoughts and emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey...sorry for the delay in the chapter but I have been a busy little bumble bee as of late!  
> Thanks and hugs to everyone for kudos and comments. They leave me feeling like the lint in my belly button....warm and fuzzy!!!

It hurt.

A lot.

He couldn’t pin point exactly what hurt. He was pretty sure it was everything. He wanted to open his eyes but he was sure even that was going to hurt, so he kept them shut. The sounds that surrounded him were familiar. He had been here before. The quiet rhythmic beeping and hissings of machines that were there to monitor his progress and to provide a certain amount of comfort. It wasn’t working and this was evident by the rhythmic beeping picking up pace as his body registered more and more pain. He couldn’t react though. It hurt too much. Vaguely he heard a voice yell out for a nurse “ _in here, now_ ”. That voice was a memory. Deep and smooth, but not as assured as he remembered it. Then there was other noises blocking out that voice. He wanted them to go away so he could hear the voice again but then there was no more noises.

The next time he became aware of his surroundings there was muttering somewhere in the distance. Neither were the familiar voice from before and he couldn’t hear what they were saying. And then the pain was there again. This time he managed a groan and his eyes cracked open a fraction, but closed straight away.

“John.” It was that voice again and this time a hand clutched at his. Another groan left his mouth as pain lanced up his arm. The grip loosened and broken apologies were muttered.

More voices. Two females. Not English. Italian? Why were they speaking Italian? It all came back to him. The case. The mission. The weapons supplier in Genoa. The fight with the giant and the fall. Why had he let his guard down? He should have heard the assailant coming up behind him, especially one so large, but something had distracted him.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was alive and bleeding and out in the open like a sitting duck. Oh god. He had to get to him.

At that thought Johns eyes flew open. He tried calling out Sherlock’s name but his throat was scratchy and something was blocking his voice so all that came out was a desperate muffled moan, but the message must have gotten through because there was Sherlock, leaning over him, worry etched on his face. Not vulnerable, not bleeding. Not Dead.

“John” he said, but he didn’t sound right. “You are going to be okay.” He tried staying focused on Sherlock’s face but one of the women were ushering him away, ordering something in Italian that John just didn’t understand. She had positioned herself between John and Sherlock, but she was short enough that John didn’t miss the frown that Sherlock threw at the small lady as she shooed him away with her hand before turning to John. If just the thought of it didn’t hurt so much, and if his throat wasn’t filled with something (his groggy mind came hazily up with endotracheal tube) John would have chuckled at the act of this little lady ordering Sherlock around.

The nurses spent what felt like a lifetime fussing over him, checking his vitals and removing what John had correctly guessed as being an endotracheal tube from his throat. Once they were happy that all was as fine as it was going to be they left.

Once the nurses had gone it was just John and Sherlock. John was tired and he wanted to be angry, yet he lacked the energy to do anything about it so all he felt was frustration. Frustration at himself for being played the fool. Frustration at Mycroft for using him. Frustration at the man standing at the end of his bed looking down at him with the most depleted look John had ever seen on a person, and right now he didn’t want to deal with it. Not while he was in pain, and not while he was still a bit foggy from all of the medication being pumped through his body. Right now he didn’t want to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

“I really don’t want to see you right now” John said flatly, his voice husky and weak from the tube and a long period of disuse. He was looking up at the ceiling, rather than at the man before him. “And I don’t really want to see you until I have enough energy to fucking punch you.” This came out with a bit more force, because suddenly, he meant it. He wanted to hurt Sherlock. He wanted him to feel pain that John had felt, and not the pain from falling from a tall building.

“John.” It was the first thing Sherlock had said since they had been left alone. “John, I am so…”

“Don’t” John tried to snap, but it came out a bit sluggish. “I really don’t want to hear it right now Sherlock. I have waited nearly nineteen months. I am sure I can wait a bit longer.”

There was a few long seconds of silence and then, “How much longer?” The question was barely audible and John finally looked to Sherlock to find the detective staring down at his feet, arms hanging limply by his side.

John swallowed. (It hurt.) The sight of the once overly confident man looking so beaten and small twisted his gut, but he was not going to back down. Not this time. “However long it takes for me to not want to fucking kill you Sherlock. It may be a week, it may be a month, or it may be nineteen fucking months.” This time John managed to spit the last three words out without any slurring, and he paid the price with a sharp stabbing pain going through his head and down his throat.

The detective looked up at him and John saw that his eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark circles. He had several days’ worth of growth on his chin and his hair was unkempt and straggly. “John, I don’t…I can’t…please, just…”

“I mourned for you Sherlock, and then I buried you. If that wasn’t bad enough I then killed for you. I let your brother employ me as the one thing I refused to do the whole time I was in the Army. I killed to get back at the people who I thought had taken you away from me. Women and children, Sherlock.”

Sherlock suddenly shed that lost look and a cold hard look filled his eyes instead. “You could hardly call them children.”

“They weren’t even of legal age” John practically gasped.

“Michael Tarver, picture boy for the ideal American son. Came from a respectable family, seventeen, good looking, blonde hair, straight teeth. Captain of the school football team, dating the head cheerleader, top marks, application to Harvard University, practically already accepted. What good could possibly have come from ending that life? The good that did, John, was that now that he is dead millions of people will stay alive. Despite being popular, athletic and studious he still found time to network with various terror cells. Chemistry and biology were his specialties, John. What do you think he was working on with them? It wasn’t some disgruntled teenager with social issues shooting up a school or making a petrol bomb in his back shed. No, John, he was working with other chemist making biological bombs.

“While you were in the states you killed the three main players in that organisation. A tip off was sent to the FBI and CIA to handle the others thanks to the things you took from Michael.”

John opened his mouth to talk but Sherlock continued.

“And as for Miklos Szabo. He was thirteen the first time he raped his cousin, who was only nine. By the time he was fourteen he had a following at school who would carry out any task he deemed unworthy of himself to do. He re-payed them with alcohol to start off with, but it was soon substituted with drugs and sex, from unwilling partners I might add. That year four students from his school were hospitalised, and not just broken wrist hospitalised, we are talking about ICU, one is a quadriplegic, type of hospitalised and also, another one went missing, only to be found a week later, beaten, tortured, sodomised and killed, left to rot in a shallow grave. Not a single person spoke out against him for fear of retribution. By the time he was fifteen he knew how to run his father’s drug smuggling business with perfection. Two weeks before you killed him, aged sixteen, he had finally killed his cousin, who had been raping since he was thirteen, because she had fallen pregnant. That wasn’t a child you killed, John. It was a monster.”

John winced. He knew all of this. He had read the file, but to hear it said out loud was a lot worse.

“So you can hate me for many things John, but don’t lay the blame of their deaths at my feet, nor at your own, because they deserved it.” Sherlock had moved from the end of the bed and was now standing next to John.

“I hated that I had to leave you John. I hated that you had to think me dead, but I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you alive. But I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you either. So many times I have had to leave towns or even countries before I knew the hit had been taken because I had been discovered, but you got to them every time and stopped them from hunting me down. The one time I was….” Sherlock stopped talking, and it seemed to John that he was trying regain control of his breathing, when he finally took a deep, shuddering breath and then continued. “You kept me alive as well John, even though I didn’t know it was you. At first I was dubious about having an anonymous ally, but…”

John was confused. Had Sherlock just said….“Hang on. What do you mean you didn’t know it was me?”

John could see anger in Sherlock’s eyes, but it wasn’t in his voice when he spoke. “Mycroft wouldn’t tell me who the shooter was. He told me that the person who had agreed to take on the task was not one of his, was not employed by any government and needed to stay anonymous at all cost.”

“And you, Sherlock Holmes, world’s most curious person, didn’t try to figure it out?”

Sherlock looked to John in that familiar way that said, _are-you-even-listening-john-?_   “As I was saying. I was not at all happy placing all my trust on an unknown face, and a few times I did wait around to try and find the sniper, but I never could, and when Mycroft found out he threatened to pull him and lumber me up with one of his men, where we would have to do things by the book and it would take longer for me to return back to y…to London. He promised that if I were to keep my curiosity at bay he would give me every detail he had on the sniper once the mission was completed. For the first few hits it was hard. It was unnatural not to try and figure it out, but then I began to see how good he…you…were and I became relaxed. I could stop tearing my attention between the work and the sniper and just throw myself into tracking down Moriarty’s network. It seemed we had a good system going. I found the rats, you exterminated them. It all ran like clock works. It was comfortable. Familiar. Now I know why.”

John could feel the anger trying to surge to the surface, but he honestly didn’t have the strength to feed it, so he let it settle, to be dealt with at a later time. “So Mycroft played us all along. Using us as each other’s weakness as incentive to continue.”

A small, satisfied smirk stole over Sherlock’s lips, just briefly, but John didn’t miss it. “Once I found out, I let him know exactly what I thought of his methods.”

“How did you find out? Last time I saw you, you were practically passed out.”

Sherlock was definitely not smirking now. In fact, John would goes as far as saying that he was looking paler than usual. “I heard you fall. I had calculated the most advantageous spot for the sniper to take the hit. I nodded up to you to affirm that you take the shot on Pasquale Tosto, the actual hit, not the decoy. It was an educated guess that that is where you were. So after hearing the crash, and knowing where it came from I concluded that you had fallen from the roof of the warehouse. I couldn’t leave you for Tosto’s men, that is if you had even survived falling that distance. You had landed on empty pallets, which helped break the impact of the fall. When I saw your face I couldn’t believe my eyes. I hate that feeling. It was Baskerville all over again. I convinced myself that it was lack of sleep and food and blood and too much pain, but when the ambulance got there it was still you and when we got to the hospital it was still you. They separated us then. I went one way and they took you another way. They had to sedate me to stop me from practically throwing myself out of the bed to follow you. When I woke up my wounds had been tended to and Mycroft was there so I got him to tell me everything, and he told me that, yes, it was you.”

John, still wanting to, but failing to feel truly angry looked back up at the ceiling. He really just wanted to punch someone now. Preferably a Holmes brother. He didn’t care which one. “That bastard never told me you were alive. Not once did he indicate that everything had been a trick.”

“I know. I am sorry John. I know you don’t want to hear it but I truly am.”

There was silence in the room and John noted that Sherlock still hadn’t made to leave, even though John expressed that he hadn’t wanted to see Sherlock anymore. Truth be told, though, John was glad that he was still there. His anger was ebbing as weariness took over. And he suddenly felt relieved.

“You are tired. Let me know when you… I’ll just leave you to it” Sherlock mumbled, reverting back to looking and sounding lost again.

John tried lifting his hand but pain lanced through his arm. Sherlock must have noticed the movement as he stopped, his hand starting to reach out for John’s and then stopping and falling back to his side.

“Just, go get some rest, yeah. You look like shit” John rasped. It was getting really hard to talk now. “Come back after you’ve had some sleep.” Sherlock seemed to pick up a bit at that. He didn’t look like he was walking the death row.

He nodded. “A few hours?” John nodded in response. It was disturbing to see Sherlock so unsure of himself. Sherlock shifted, as if he was about to lean towards John and then stopped himself and walked out the door.

~o~

John didn’t get much sleep. Not long after Sherlock left the Surgeon, Doctor Pesaresi, came in to see him. He ran through John’s injuries and John was thankful that his English was clear.

Collapsed lung, left, minor complications during surgery, chest tube to be removed within the next 24 hours; Puncture wound to the left external abdominal oblique caused by a piece of wood three and a half inches long, two inches wide, pierced the muscle only; small skull fracture to the Occipital Bone, should heal without further complications; shattered clavicle, left side will require further surgery to fix; Broken Ulna, left, close to the hand, will need a cast to support healing; broken phalanges, two on the right hand, three on the left hand; Tibia broken in two places on the left leg, will need surgery to reset and nail the bone; multiple bruises and minor lacerations. Needless to say, John’s left side would be out of action for a while and many sessions of physiotherapy would be required. It was no wonder he was in so much pain.

Doctor Pesaresi then ran some basic tests of his own and was happy with the results. He expected John to make a full recovery.

After the Doctor left the nurse came in and hassled him again.

“You look much better now you awake” she said, careful to pronounce her words carefully.

“I don’t feel much better” John responded, but there was a small smile on his face.

“Your boyfriend. He stay by you all the days. We threaten him with hose if he no shower.”

John’s smile grew at that. Those small women sure knew how to handle Sherlock. Then the words she spoke dawned on him. “ _Your boyfriend_.” John opened his mouth to tell her that Sherlock was not his boyfriend, but found that he didn’t want to so instead he said, “Yeah, he can be stubborn like that. I will have to remember the hose trick when we get home.”

She flashed him a grin and then left. Finally John slept.

~o~

John looked up as the door to his room opened, and when he saw who was entering he wanted to be angry, to yell and shout and throw the pee bottle at him, but instead of profanities leaving his mouth once it opened, laughter did, and it was worth the pain that lanced through his chest and shoulders.

Standing in front of the closed door was Mycroft Holmes in his brown three piece suit, leaning on his trusty umbrella, sporting, not one, but two black eyes and a strip of tape across his nose, presumably to reset it after having it broken.

“Sherlock?” he asked once the chuckles stopped and he needed to steady his breathing again, but he already knew the answer and that kept the grin on his face.

Mycroft tried to maintain his air of importance, but he just wasn’t able to pull it off while he looked like an accident prone panda bear. “Yes, it appears that my brother didn’t approve of the way I organised the specifics of the mission.”

John’s amusement dropped away and the anger that John couldn’t be bothered dealing with before six hours of uninterrupted sleep was suddenly making a show again. “You deserved it, and you are lucky that I am immobile at the moment otherwise you would have a broken jaw to go with it.”

If John didn’t know better he would have said that Mycroft almost looked apologetic. “Yes, well, lucky for me I guess.”

“Why are you even here?” John asked, looking away from the British Government, and towards the window instead.

“Debrief.” Was the quick answer.

John looked back to Mycroft, one eyebrow cocked. “We never debrief. What is so different about this time?”

Mycroft shrugged. “You have never ended up in hospital. What went wrong this time?”

John’s look hardened and the anger flared up in full force. “What the fuck do you think went wrong Mycroft?" he hissed.   "I go to shoot the target but am blocked by someone who is supposed to have been dead for over a year.”

Mycroft’s normal impassive mask fell over his face. “You should have carried on with the mission and then left.”

“You heartless bastard” John cried, trying, and failing, to not get too worked up. “If I had carried on and left, your brother and an innocent woman would be dead by now.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, as if he was holding something back, then tilting his chin up he spoke. “I assure you, John, we had the situation under con…”

“Bullshit” John spat, cutting him off, anger and adrenaline masking a bulk of his pain. “There was nothing resembling control in that situation. I was the only back up Sherlock had.” His outburst left him feeling breathless but he didn’t care.

Mycroft was now glaring at John, apparently also unconcerned with John’s current condition. “Sherlock shouldn’t have been there.”

John wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Well, he was, and maybe if you had told me, from the beginning, what the fuck was actually going on, I wouldn’t have been caught off guard. Maybe, if Sherlock had been aware of who he was working with we could have worked together and he wouldn’t have needed to be there, did you ever think about that, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s imperious look dropped a bit. “In fact I did, but I would not have been advisable for you two to have been seen in each other’s company. It was important that you stay separated and focused on the task and I did not believe that would have been possible, given your… relationship with each other.”

John actually did laugh at the absurdity of it this time, which hurt and he winced before replying. “Are you fucking joking? The only relationship between us, Mycroft, was purely platonic and even if it wasn’t, we are grown men not bloody love sick teenagers. If bringing down this web, successfully, meant staying away then we could have managed it. But we could have also worked with each other at the same time. You have all means of untraceable technology we could have used to communicate with each other. We could have gone by the false names we have been using throughout this entire fuck-up.”

Mycroft looked down at the perfectly manicured nails on his left hand. “It was a risk I was not willing to take.”

“And how do you think that worked out in the end?” John was tired again, but he pressed on, determined to say his piece. “Me and Sherlock had been a team for over a year before all of this started. We always had each other’s back. Why would you possibly think it would have been different this time around?”

Now Mycroft just looked annoyed, and that sort of made John feel a little better. “Do I really have to spell it out Doctor Watson?” he sneered.

“Apparently, yeah, you do.” Because John could not see how anyone could have thought that Sherlock and he working together would have been a bad idea.

“You were my brother’s weakness” Mycroft stated as if talking to a rather simple person about a rather large problem. “You were the leverage that Moriarty used to bring him down.”

That was bullshit and they both knew it, and John made sure to remind Mycroft of that fact. “We both know that Jim would have found another way. I was just the easy way.”

“Hmmm, maybe” was the response John got. It was as close to an agreement between the two of them that John was ever going to get. He was just going to have to make sure that Mycroft actually knew it.

“No fucking maybe about it. If it wasn’t me it was going to be something else. Your brother is not as heartless or as friendless as either of you try and make the world believe. If people are a weakness to him then he has many weaknesses and don’t for a second think that any of them would ever abandon him when he needed it.”

After a few seconds Mycroft let out a resigned sigh and his whole demeanour seemed to deflate slightly. “Doctor Watson, listen carefully because I will say this only once. Upon reflection I admit that my handling of this situation may have been unsound. It does appear that despite providing a vulnerability for my brother, you also make him stronger. It was a mistake to keep you two apart. A mistake that I am sure I will not be making again.”

John was speechless. Not a single word was forming in his head, let alone a full sentence. Mycroft Holmes had practically apologised and admitted that he was wrong all in under ten seconds. Sensing that the Doctor had nothing else to add to the conversation Mycroft took that as his cue to leave.

“I wish you a speedy recovery doctor, and thank you for saving my brother’s life, once again. I shall see you on your return to London.”

And with that he was gone. John was alone once again running through the whole fucked up day in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sorry for any incorrect medical terminology….there is sooo much info on the net and it is all really confusing and not the same. 
> 
> **Also, for all of you who say John would never have survived a fall of that height, it has actually been done, some from higher heights, and the fall-ees have lived to tell the tale, some with less injuries than John!!


	11. 10 - Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a lot of healing to do before they can even begin to go back to what they had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap between chapters. Uni this semester is proving to be horrid and I also had trouble with this chapter, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy newly discovered Jaffa Cakes.   
> (If you are wondering how much that is, I have had to add an extra day to my jogging schedule!!!)

The following week saw John beginning to heal. Sherlock was now camping out in John’s room, sleeping on the recliner that the nurse had brought him that second night in, refusing to be away from him for more than a few hours at a time. Sherlock had a strong feeling that this wasn’t standard hospital procedure and added to the list of things he would inevitably have to pay Mycroft back for.

John had a second operation to fix his collarbone and then a third one to help repair the two breaks in his leg. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would probably have a permanent limp from now on, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced. While John was in his final round of surgery Sherlock did multiple researches on broken bones and reducing permanent symptoms. If the surgeon was as good as he said he was and if John adhered to a strict physiotherapy regime all should heal well.

That night Sherlock stole a marker from the nurse’s office and started a count down on the cast on Johns arm for when it could come off.

**5 weeks to go!**

John would need that arm. It was his shooting arm. Unfortunately for Sherlock there was the odd need to leave John’s bedside and Sherlock cursed the fact that the body had basic needs that needed attending to. Needs such as nicotine patches and decent food for John. Even in Italy, hospital food was absolute rubbish. How could anyone be expected to regain their health when the food had the consistency and the odour of baby vomit? John had told him that it was all fine, really, not to make a fuss, but Sherlock didn’t miss the look of absolute relief on John’s face when he placed the takeaway container of mushroom and veil tortellini in front of him.

“Not as good as Angelo’s” John said around a mouthful of pasta, “But still bloody good.” The matron on duty had tutted at John for eating such rich foods, less than twelve hours after coming out of surgery, but John just shrugged and continued to eat the well-above-hospital-standard meal.

On that fourth night after John woke up, after he had finished eating the tortellini, Sherlock decided to bite the bullet and get the conversation that they had both been avoiding out of the way.

“I was a right arse, John” he blurted out as John settled back against the raised head of the hospital bed. Sherlock’s outburst resulted in an odd look from John. “I know what I did was more than a bit not good and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need to tell you.”

“Sherlock” John interrupted, but Sherlock had started, and if John stopped him now he wasn’t sure if he would be able to start again. “What I did, I did to save Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade and you. If I didn’t jump Moriarty would have had you all killed. There was never an option of not jumping, and if I was in that situation again I would do it again.”

“Sherlock” John interrupted again, but Sherlock would not be stopped. “What I did following the fall is what was unforgivable John. I should never have allowed Mycroft to talk me in to leaving you behind. I should have told you that I was alive and I’m not proud….” Sherlock fumbled for words. It wasn’t often that he was wrong, and it was even rarer that he actually admitted to it.

“When I saw you at the pier and then after you came out of surgery. I thought I had lost you. I thought that you might not make it and I don’t know how I would have carried on. I realised what I had put you through and I hate…”

“Sherlock!” This time it was said a bit too loud to be ignored. Sherlock looked up at John, scared of what he would see. What he didn’t expect to see was a small, but genuine smile on John’s face.

“Sherlock” he said, gentler this time, now that he had Sherlock’s attention. “It’s fine. It’s all, fine. I get, I understand and I do forgive you.”

Sherlock blinked, taking in John’s words and running them through his head over and over again, looking for any hidden meaning. “But you told me that you didn’t want to see me. You were so angry.”

John huffed out a little laugh and then winced at the pain it caused. “Trust me” he said once the pain had faded again. “I’m still really pissed off, but I’m getting better. And as for not wanting to see you, Sherlock, you have been here for the past four days. If I didn’t want to see you do you honestly think I wouldn’t have told you to bugger off by now?”

“But, you said…”

“Yeah, and I was angry and confused and sore and tired, and really fucking angry.”

“You said angry twice.”

“I don’t think you understand just how angry I was.”

“And now?”

“Now I am only a bit pissed off, still sore, less confused and not nearly as tired.”

Sherlock looked away. He couldn’t look at John. John wasn’t meant to be this okay about it. Sherlock didn’t deserve this. He jumped when he felt a weight on his hand. He looked down to see John’s bandaged hand resting on his.

“I understand, Sherlock. I forgive you. I think I forgave you before the end of our first discussion. And as much as I don’t agree with what you and Mycroft did I do understand why you did it. I went nineteen months without you Sherlock, it was complete hell. I don’t particularly fancy having to go any longer just because I have a grudge to hold.”

Sherlock looked from their hands, resting on his knee, up to John’s face. It was so open and honest and Sherlock could believe that John had forgiven him. His mouth turned up into a small smile and he realised that in the last four days, despite the pain he had been in, he had seen John smile more than he had in the last nineteen months. Sherlock, being back in John’s life, had actually made him happy again.

“I’ll just use it to guilt you into doing things around the flat from now on” he said with a smile and Sherlock beamed.

“Does that mean you are moving back into Baker Street?”

This time it was John’s turn to look down, the happy look on his face being replaced with one of concern and Sherlock had a fleeting feeling that he had said the wrong thing.

“You can’t ever do this to me again, Sherlock” John said quietly, still not looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock felt a heavy knot forming in his stomach, just at the thought of leaving John again.

“I promise, John” he whispered, gently wrapping his fingers around John’s hand.

They sat in silence for a while before John let out a small resigned sigh and spoke. “My flat had been packed up before I had finished quitting my job at the surgery and replying to Mycroft’s offer, a note left saying that my possessions had been placed in storage. I have a feeling I moved back into Baker Street sixteen months ago.”

Sherlock couldn’t hide the smile that had taken over his face and when John looked up at him he smiled too. He felt like some of the weight he had been carrying for the past nineteen months lift a little bit.

“Welcome home, John.”

When Sherlock slept, briefly, that night there were no nightmares.

~o~

The following night Mycroft texted his brother.

**I hope all is going well. So far there has been no movement on our end. M**

Sherlock didn’t reply. The rest of the week passed slowly with John doing breathing exercises and trying to gently move his leg or his arm. Sherlock tried not to enjoy the feeling of his skin against John’s whenever he needed assistance. John shouldn’t need assistance. He shouldn’t be here at all, but every time Sherlock’s skin touched John’s there was a warm buzz that lingered long after he stopped touching John and Sherlock couldn’t help but enjoy the way it made him feel. Most of the time it was their fingers that brushed as he passed an item to John, or a hand and forearm as he helped John move in the hospital bed. One time he had had to help pull John further up the bed and, having to be rather close to John to keep the movement as steady as possible, Sherlock had found his cheek pressed up against John’s neck, his chin lightly resting on his shoulder. Sherlock had moved away slowly, not only enjoying the touch, but also John’s scent, which was still noticeable under all of the disinfectant smells of the hospital.

The end of the week saw the sutures removed from Sherlock’s leg. There was still a dull ache there but he was assured that it would go with time and no to put any unnecessary pressure on the leg for the next couple of weeks. The advice was discarded as soon as the doctor had turned his attention to John, where the stitches were then removed from the back of John’s skull and from his chest and his abdomen. The surgeon was extremely happy with the recovery so far.

The smaller cuts and lacerations had healed to very faint pink lines and the bruising was now turning yellow.

It was during the day that Sherlock could monitor John’s slow, but steady, recovery and feel like everything was okay. At night time it was harder. At night time Sherlock watched John twitch and murmur in his sleep as nightmares took over. Sherlock placed a hand gently over John’s heart and whispered reassurances in his ear until Johns sleeping form calmed and the frown left his face. Sherlock refused to let the nightmares take hold. Once John calmed only then would Sherlock let himself fall into a light sleep, the thought of John nearby, keeping his own nightmares at bay.

~o~

Normally John should have been able to leave the hospital after the second week of surgery, since all had gone well. And he would have if it had just been his lung, or his leg or just one of the many other injuries, but the accumulation of all of his injuries together were impeding his general movement and he was required to stay longer. He couldn’t walk to build up lung strength because he needed a crutch and couldn’t use a crutch due to his broken arm and clavicle.

Being bed ridden drove John insane. Sherlock tried to break the boredom by making absurd deductions about anyone, from the surgeon down to the tea-trolley lady, who came into the room. He had to tone it down when the laughter caused John too much pain.

Once every waking hour, John had to carry out breathing exercises either with a spirometer or forcing out huff coughs, which Sherlock made sure he did regularly every day, despite how much it hurt him to see John in pain. Gradually it got better.

After the second week the sutures from both of his later operations were removed. The surgeon was happy with the way the shoulder was sitting and John was told that after it had completely healed he could have the pins removed. That should be in twelve to fifteen weeks. In the meantime he needed to keep it immobilised as much as possible and would have to use a sling for at least another seven weeks.

The leg looked like it was healing well, but only time and physiotherapy would tell just how well. John was informed that the tibial nails would remain, so no further surgery was required there. He would just be required to wear a splint for another five weeks to aid in the bone setting properly.

Sherlock remarked the cast on John’s arm. **4 weeks to go!**

Halfway through that week Sherlock had commandeered a wheelchair and with the nurses permission took John outside to get some fresh air. This became a daily ritual after that. It was amazing what half an hour of sunshine a day could do to someone’s morale. And it wasn’t just John’s mood that was improving. Despite time moving slowly and there being nothing to do; despite the dull ecru coloured hospital walls being the only thing that surrounded him ninety percent of the time, Sherlock was content. Aiding John in his recovery was somehow soothing to the cutting guilt that still shadowed Sherlock’s conscience. Every time Sherlock did something for John that earned him a smile in return, Sherlock felt a bit more hopeful that they could at least move back to what they had had before Moriarty happened, even if it never moved any further.

It was at the end of the second week that the physiotherapist came in and assessed John’s injuries. He made a list of exercises that John could do while he was still bandaged up. Sherlock forced himself not to glare at the man every time he laid his hands on John’s body. John would surely not appreciate it. Sherlock’s mood, and respect for the man lifted when he instructed Sherlock in how to help John himself and told them that in a few weeks he would teach John exercises to do once the cast on his arm and the splint on his leg came off. He was adamant that John stick to the schedule that he had set out and Sherlock assured him that he would make sure John followed every step.

That night John was able to walk to the toilet, assisted by one of the nurses. Sherlock didn’t think he had ever seen someone look so happy about being able to use a toilet.

Mycroft messaged again that night, after John had gone to sleep.

**May have a possible location for Moran. Have emailed you a file. Look over it. M**

Sherlock did reply to that one.

**Have other matters to attend to.Get one of your minions to look into it. It is what they are paid for after all SH**

~o~

After three weeks John’s fingers no longer needed to be splinted. John was happy to be able to bend and flex all of his fingers once more, even if they were stiff and ached. A few days of exercises and they would be as good as new.

Physiotherapy continued every day. On the weekends Sherlock assisted with the routines, definitely trying to not enjoy the fact that this meant more contact with John. It wasn’t just touch that Sherlock looked forward to. It was seeing the look on John’s face every time his recovery progressed just that little bit more. The happiness that radiated from John when he managed to sit up on his own, or managed to stand throughout the duration of brushing his teeth made up for the anguish Sherlock felt when he saw the pain on John’s face as he carried out his exercises prescribed by the physiotherapist.

Half way through the week Sherlock came back his bi-daily shopping trip to find John half way to the bathroom, unassisted.

“What in the hell are you doing, John?” he barked, dropping the bag and rushing to John’s side.

“What does it look like” John snapped back. Sherlock had seen this coming for a few days now. John hadn’t been as happy as normal, or as enthused about his physiotherapy lessons. Sherlock had even noticed that food seemed to have lost its appeal, even after he had found a bakery that made blueberry muffins.

Sherlock let go of the gentle grip he had on John’s elbow, but didn’t step away from John.

“I just…I need….” John was clearly frustrated and Sherlock wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t know what to say without making it worse. “I just want to be able to go to the bloody loo on my own” he finally spat out and his good arm dropped to his side in defeat.

Sherlock looked at John and saw just how miserable he was. He took a step back. “Go on then” he said.

John looked up at him, confused. “But…but this isn’t part of the therapy” he said sounding unsure. “If a nurse comes in, right now…”

“Well, I suggest you get a move on then” Sherlock said as he gestured with his hand in the direction of the bathroom. John looked at Sherlock for a few more seconds and then smiled.

“I guess I had better” he said and turned and hobbled slowly towards the bathroom.

As he reached the door Sherlock called out, “Best leave the door open so when you fall over I can hear you call out.” He grinned as John’s right arm raised and he gave him the finger. “Good, I see your fingers are in full working order again” and John just chuckled as he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Mycroft messaged again that night.

**I must insist that you head back to London. John has the best care available to him in Italy. You are of more use to everyone here. M**

This time Sherlock rang his brother.

“Sherlock” Mycroft answered as Sherlock plonked himself on the bench outside. This wasn’t a phone call he wanted to make in front of John.

“Stop it, Mycroft” Sherlock snapped down the phone.

“Sherlock, surely you must see what is happening.”

“Yes, I see that John is trying to recover from an almost fatal accident that was a result of your poor judgement, Mycroft, and until he is well enough to come home I am staying here with him."

“Sherlock, Moran is on the move, and he is making obvious mistakes.” Mycroft implored.

“Well then Mycroft, do something about it.”

“We can’t.” Mycroft stated, and Sherlock thought that it must have killed his brother to admit that. “We are picking up movements and finding the glitches in his usually flawless system, but we are unable to predict his next move. We can’t find a discernible pattern.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan. “You are supposed to have some of the most intelligent people in the country working for you, Mycroft and now you are telling me that they can’t find a man who is making obvious mistakes?”

“He is trying to throw us. Sherlock. The mistakes are a form of taunting. He is saying, ‘I’m right here in front of you, I bet you can’t catch me.’ We can’t figure this out without your assistance”

“Well then, I guess you need to get your men to try harder” and with that Sherlock hung up the phone.

Moran had taken John away from him for nineteen months. If he wanted to finally come out and play he was going to have to wait. They were playing on Sherlock’s terms now.

Sherlock didn’t think about it anymore. Instead he went back to John’s room where his friend was sleeping peacefully. Without waking John, Sherlock took out the black marker and made his weekly mark on the cast on John’s arm. **3 weeks to go!** It was possible that John was going to need that arm sooner than they all thought.

~o~

After four weeks Sherlock was disappointed to find that John could manoeuvre his arm and shoulder enough to be able to wear a tee-shirt again. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his friend to get better, it was just that he had enjoyed being able to look at John’s body whenever he wanted, especially since, due to inactivity on John’s behalf, the muscle definition was lessening and due to the high carb foods Sherlock had been plying him with the softness was returning to his face and his tummy. Sherlock didn’t mention any of this to John out loud, just happily appreciated it in silence.

John no longer needed to do the breathing exercises, although he still needed to take it easy. He was able to move to the bathroom unassisted and could take slightly longer walks, usually to the nurse’s station and back, with minimal assistance. He usually got there, flirted with a few of the nurses, leaving some of them blushing quite hard, and retuned back to his bed with a cheeky smirk on his face. Sherlock tried to refuse to let this bother him, but he couldn’t help the feeling of disappointment when he flashed that old John Watson smile at the girls behind the desk, throwing in a wink for extra measure. Their relationship was fast reaching its original level and for that Sherlock would be thankful. The physiotherapy sessions continued and the therapists uppe

d John’s exercises. Neither John nor Sherlock were deterred in anyway. They were only more determined to get John up and chasing after Sherlock again.

**2 weeks to go!** was scrawled onto John’s cast.

After five weeks, Physiotherapy was working a treat on both his leg and his shoulder and John was able to carry out most basic activities with minimal assistance. All wounds were healed, except for his broken bones, but the doctors were happy with their progress and his breathing was coming along perfectly. At the end of the five weeks John was given the all clear to fly back to London. Neither of the boys could contain their smiles at the thought of returning to 221B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I have written and re-written this chapter over and over again but I still feel like something is missing. If you find it feel free to let me know:)  
> **Also, I apologise for my lack of medical knowledge and procedures. I tried to desperately remember how long things take to heal from when I broke my own collar bone over 12 years ago now, but so much has changed and there is so much information on the net. It was too easy to become befuddled so if there are any inconsistencies just give a little whisper in my left ear or, you know, appreciate the fact that while you are reading this you are living in the world on non-fiction!! ;)  
> ***And seriously, if you haven't tried Jaffa Cakes, you are missing out my friend. Get some of that orangey-chocolatey goodness into your system and your life will be much better!


	12. 11 - Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John are finally back at Baker Street. 
> 
> John has his chair, some people aren't too thrilled with Sherlock's presence, Mycroft wants him to stay dead for a bit longer yet but Sherlock does what he wants and there is mould. Life is settling back nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a bit lengthy guys, but I really wanted to get a bulk of the niggly stuffs out of the way so I can start concentrating on the good stuff…which will be headed your way soon, I promise!!
> 
> Again, your support is as welcome as as a shell-bra at a MerCon convention (yes, that is what you are thinking and yes, they exist!). 
> 
> Also, this will be the last chapter I post, for at least a month as I have a 4 week full-time practicum coming up for uni and that along with my studies for my other subjects, work and general living, it is going to be a tight schedule. If only sleep wasn't necessary!!
> 
> Anyways, read, enjoy and know that when I come back things will start to heat up for our boys ;) And don't stop being Fabulous!!

John walked into their flat and almost cried. There, to the left of the fire place, facing the black leather arm chair was his old red, worn, lumpy, comfy armchair, right where it had always been. Right where it belonged. John limped, once again with the aid of a cane, over to the chair and slowly lowered himself down, laying his head back and closing his eyes. It was still the same as he remembered. John smiled to himself. Yes. He was home.

Just over 24 hours ago the doctor had told them that John was fit to fly and no longer needed hospitalised assistance. So long as he went to the appropriate specialists back in London he was free to leave. It had taken less than 2 hours for Sherlock to organise, courtesy of Mycroft, a private plane to take them both home the following day. Sherlock had sulked, stating that his brother was making them wait in revenge for Sherlock not going home as soon as Mycroft had asked him to. John argued that they probably didn’t have planes to use at the drop of a hat. Sherlock had told him that he was naïve. John had left the argument there, not deeming it worth the effort and counted himself lucky that he wasn’t going to have to spend the trip, which was bound to be uncomfortable, with a bunch of strangers, despite it only being a short flight. So this morning John had signed himself out of hospital, stumbling over ‘ _thank you_ ’ and ‘ _you have been wonderful_ ’ in Italian to the nurses, who had grinned at his poor pronunciation, but told him that they would miss the two strange men from room C34. Sherlock had grumbled that it wasn’t that hard to get two small phrases right. John grumbled back that not everyone could go from passable to fluent in three weeks. Sherlock had pretended not to hear him as he pushed John’s wheel chair out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for them. Within the hour they were in the air, on their way back to London.

It had taken what seemed like forever to get from the airport to Baker Street. Sherlock snapped at the taxi driver for taking the worst possible route and John grinned that it really was just like it had been. It really was like nothing had changed. He ignored the voice in his head that told him that everything was different. How could it not be? But eventually they had made it home and everything had been arranged like it was before life went to hell, just cleaner and more organised. John tried to guess, in his head, exactly how long _that_ would last but was interrupted by Sherlock coming from his room and announcing that he was going to put Johns stuff away.

John’s brain stuttered off line for a few micro seconds before Sherlock’s words actually penetrated his brain and he realised how totally _not_ normal that statement was. John had seen Sherlock leave his own bag, left unpacked for weeks, only getting shoved under the bed once he had had some use for each item in the bag, rendering it empty and ready to be put away and here he was _offering_ to unpack John’s bag. Not only that, but, despite what Sherlock thought, John was not completely hopeless. “Ah, no, that’s fine. I can put my own stuff away.”

“But the doctors said….” Sherlock began to argue before John cut in.

“Yeah, they said to take it easy, not to completely stop. I know my limits Sherlock. I’m not going to push it, and unpacking my bag is most definitely not pushing it.”

“But just climbing the stairs made you tired, in fact I think you should have my room, so you don’t need to climb any more stairs.” If John hadn’t thought the conversation could get any weirder than he had been grossly mistaken.

“No, Sherlock. My room is fine. If I’m organised enough I will only have to climb them once a day.”

“But…”

“No buts. I’m not taking your room.”

Sherlock sighed, clearly on his way to becoming frustrated with John. “You wouldn’t be taking it. I am offering….”

“This is not up for debate Sherlock. I just want things to go back to some sort of normal, yeah. And that means sleeping in my bed again. I need my bed. I have missed my bed. Almost as much as I have missed my chair” and with that he turned from Sherlock, running his hands over the familiar arms of the chairs. The argument was over.

There was silence and John could practically hear Sherlock mentally debating with himself over whether he should push the issue or let it drop. A small grin spread across his face.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Sherlock asked.

John was about to answer when they heard the downstairs door open. “Mrs Hudson” Sherlock grinned, heading towards the door. John silently groaned.  Trust Sherlock to think that this was all some wonderful surprise that everyone would be delighted to participate in.

“No, Sherlock, wait” John urged, turning in his seat to face his over excited flatmate. “She thinks you’re dead.”

Sherlock’s mouth went from delighted grin to cocky smirk. “Well, won’t it be a lovely surprise when I go down and greet her.”

John stood up pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t consider the consequences of springing something like that on a woman in her seventies.

“Sherlock. She is seventy two. Suddenly seeing you at her door will probably give her a heart attack” he explained walking towards Sherlock.

“Nonsense John. She’ll be thrilled….”

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of familiar kitten heels making their way up the steps to flat B.

“Go, now” John hissed, pushing Sherlock in the direction of his room.

“John, really, I think…”

“Five minutes, Sherlock. Just let me break it to her gently, yeah” he muttered with another push in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock finally gave in and slunk towards his bedroom but not before throwing a scowl over his shoulder in John’s direction. Just as the bedroom door shut there was a knock on the living room door. As fast as he could John limped over towards the door, cursing the use of his cane once again. At least this time he knew it was only temporary. ‘ _Maybe_ ’ a sinister version of his own voice whispered inside his head. The voice was pushed aside as he opened the door to a surprised, yet happy, looking Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, John” she cried going to hug him, but stopping when she noticed his arm in the sling, so she settled for placing the palm of her hand on his cheek instead. “Mycroft said that you were coming home this week.” Her smile changed to a motherly scowl. “He should have said it was today. I would have done a quick tidy up” she fussed.

John stepped back to let his landlady into the flat. “That’s fine Mrs H” he assured her as she stepped into the room. “I think Mycroft’s people must have seen to that. They stocked the fridge too.”

“He’s a good boy” she said, the smile returning to her face again. “I can’t believe that you are home, after all this time. How was your holiday? I got your post cards. And your gifts. The tea pot was just lovely.”

John smiled down at the small lady. “I’m glad you liked it. Did, um, did Mycroft tell you anything else?”

Mrs Hudson looked up, her friendly smile turning into a disapproved frown again. John flinched. For such a small lady she sure could look quite fierce. “He most certainly did, young man. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out?” John felt a mixture of anticipation and relief rush through him. She knew about Sherlock. “I mean, what were you doing on top of a building in order to be able to fall off, and after…well…you need to be more careful.”

The relief left John’s body in such a rush he felt a bit light headed. Mycroft the cowardly bastard hadn’t mentioned Sherlock at all. John focused his attention back on Mrs Hudson, bracing himself to break the news to her, only to find her craning her neck to see around him, towards the kitchen.

“I thought I heard you talking to someone. That’s why I came up here, to see if you were actually home. Have you brought someone back with you? I can leave if…”

“No, no, it’s all fine Mrs Hudson and, yes, I do have someone here with me.”

Mrs Hudson clasped her hands in front of her chest and let out a little sound of joy. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve moved on, after Sherlock I mean.”

John bit his bottom lip, trying to stay calm. “Mrs Hudson. Me and Sherlock were never…you know what, never mind. Yes Mrs Hudson, you heard me talking to someone. I was…why don’t you take a seat” he offered, directing her towards the couch. Mrs Hudson followed and sat down with a rather concerned look on her face and John suddenly felt guilty for worrying the poor woman. Maybe Sherlock’s _Surprise!_ would have been better after all. John quickly set about reassuring her.

“No, don’t look worried. It’s not bad news, it just might come as bit of a shock.”

The look on her face lifted a bit, but not much. Best get it over with, and quickly.

“You see, when Sherlock fell off of the roof at Bart’s it was all just some elaborate trick. Sherlock is actually alive.” John looked at Mrs Hudson who was looking at him with the most pitying look he had ever seen and in the past two years he had seen quite a few.

“Of course he is dear” she said gently, taking a hold of his good hand. “How about I make you a cup of tea and then maybe you should have a nap. All of that travelling seems to have left you a bit…”

 _Confused, loopy, delusional_. John could see it on her face. She thought he had gone crazy and to be honest he didn’t blame her.

“Well, now. How about I make that cup of tea, shall I?”

John was about to protest further when a deep voice beat him to it.

“Yes, I’d quite love a cup of tea.”

John’s head snapped up and Mrs Hudson spun around on the couch, the one hand gripping Johns, tightening a lot harder than he thought anyone her size or age should be capable of, the other hand flying to her mouth to smother the little gasp-squeak of disbelief that slipped out.

There, casually leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, legs crossed at the ankles, arms lazily crossed across his chest, mischievous smirk on his face, was the one and only, very much alive, Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh, my” squeaked Mrs Hudson, finally letting go of Johns hand which had started to lose feeling. She stood up slowly and made her way, almost cautiously, over to Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” she asked hesitantly reaching out to her, as if she wasn’t sure she was really seeing him. It was almost heart breaking to watch.

“In the flesh” Sherlock replied, his grin going from smug to fond as he straightened up in front of one of his dearest friends, holding his arms out to receive the hug that was surely on its way.

There was no hug. Suddenly everything changed. Mrs Hudson went from hesitant to rigid and the next words that came out of her mouth were not soft or caring, but hard and loud. “You utter, utter rascal. How dare you?” Both of her hands were now slapping at Sherlock’s arms and shoulders and John had to bite down on his lip, hard, to stop himself from laughing. “And at my age” she continued to rage. “Do you have any idea what we went through?” Sherlock was being herded back into the kitchen, trying to escape 5.1feet of Mrs Hudson’s wrath. His retreat was abruptly stopped by the kitchen table where their landlady’s fire stuttered to a halt and the hug finally came. Mrs Hudson embraced the detective in a tight hold, her shoulders shaking as little sobs escaped her mouth. “Don’t you ever, _ever_ do that again Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock looked up and met John’s eyes as he returned her hug. “I promise. Never again.”

~o~

Once Mrs Hudson had gotten over the shock of Sherlock being not so dead, and very muchly alive Sherlock, to John’s surprise, made them all tea and they sat in the living room where Sherlock gave their landlady an extremely edited version of why he did what he had done. Mrs Hudson expressed, multiple times, how happy she was that Sherlock was alive and how happy she was that her boys were home, where they belonged. After the second cup of tea she announced that she was going over to Mrs Turners to share her good news.

“I told you she would be fine, John.” Sherlock relayed, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“Hmm” John replied only just suppressing a grin. “Apparently it was you I should have been worried about.”

Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed his arms and shoulders as he made his way to the window, no doubt watching their landlady scurry from their apartment to the next. “I always knew she was feisty, but I never would have guessed that she would hit quite so hard. Full of surprises that one.”

There was silence over the flat as Sherlock wandered to the desk where his violin case had been placed. The last time John had seen that it had been sitting on top of the bookshelf in his drab apartment. The look on Sherlock’s face was of pure delight and utter fondness. It was a stark contrast from the hard look he normally wore and it seemed to soften all of the sharp angles to his face. Slowly his long fingers undid the clasps on the case and opened it. For a few seconds his hands hovered over the instrument before slowly lowering down and lifting it up.

John couldn’t be certain but he was sure that Sherlock whispered “ _Hello_ ” as he held it up, running his eyes over the dark wood, a small smile playing on his lips. John sat back and watched as Sherlock studied every aspect of the instrument, running his fingers over every inch of it and he couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous over the violin.

John quickly shook his head, realising how ridiculous it was to feel jealousy over an inanimate object. “Why didn’t Mycroft tell her you were alive, I mean, when he told her I was coming home?” John asked in order to distract himself from envisioning Sherlock running his hands over _him_ like he did the violin, and then felt a bit guilty for taking Sherlock’s attention away from something he had obviously missed, very much, for quite a while. But Sherlock didn’t seem distracted. In fact, it seemed like he hadn’t heard John at all as he put the violin down and pulled out his bow and started rosining it up.

“I have a theory” he finally answered, placing the rosin back where it belonged and picking the violin up again. He was about to place the bow to the strings when there were two sharp raps on the door downstairs. “I guess we are about to find out for certain though” he sighed, lowering the violin again, waiting as they listened to a familiar tread on the stairs. Less than a minute later Mycroft Holmes stood in their doorway, looking much better than he had the last time John had seen him. You couldn’t even tell that his nose had been broken.

“Doctor Watson, Brother” he greeted, with a nod to each of them.

“Mycroft” John replied at the same time Sherlock said,

“Whatever you want the answer is no” and with that he lifted his violin to his shoulder again and ran the bow over the extremely out of tune strings. Mycroft slowly inhaled as he watched his brother with one eyebrow raised. The look of someone who has had to witness this display of childish petulance on numerous occasions and couldn’t believe that one would still carry on in such a fashion.

“John, remind me to pick up new strings when we head out” Sherlock said as if his brother wasn’t there, fiddling with the tuning pegs on the violin.

“I see that you have both settled back in with no problems” Mycroft drawled, that familiar tight smile across his lips as he sat on in John’s chair, recently vacated by Mrs Hudson.

“Yes, very well, thank you” John answered, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t bother. The thank you was for many things. The concern, the cleaning and restocking of food and for the assumption that John would move back once all of this was over. Sherlock obviously didn’t share the same sentiment.

“We have been back a total of 1 hour and 53 minutes. Hardly enough time to do anything, let alone settle in especially when one had to explain to their landlady that they were in fact _not_ dead.”

“Ah, yes” Mycroft mused. “Mrs Hudson. I assume she can be relied on for discretion regarding your status.”

John snorted out a laugh while Sherlock dropped into the chair across from his brother throwing him a look that said ‘ _Yes Mycroft, and I really believe you have given cake up for good this time_.’

“If by discretion you mean that she has just gone to inform Mrs Turner that both of _Her Boys_ , as she has claimed us, have returned back to Baker Street, then yes, by all means, assume away.” With that said he put the bow to violin string and drew out noises that would make a banshee cringe. It wasn’t loud enough that John didn’t miss the frustrated sigh that left Mycroft’s lips though and he watched as one of the most powerful men in Britain prepared to attempt a discussion with his little brother.

John was feeling more and more like his old self by the minute. He couldn’t keep the small grin off of his face if he tried, not that either of the other two occupants of the room were paying him the slightest bit of notice.

Finally, realising that abusing everyone’s sense of hearing wasn’t going to drive his brother away this time, Sherlock placed his violin in his lap and glared at his brother.

“What do you want Mycroft?”

“There are matters to discuss” Mycroft replied, all business, as if his ears weren’t on the verge of bleeding. “The main one being that you are dead.”

“We all know that that was never formal. Mock papers were set up and never actually lodged. That was why my insurance and trust fund were never released to John.”

John almost choked on his inhaling breath. “What!?”

Sherlock looked to John, an almost outraged expression on his face. “You don’t actually think I would leave everything to him, did you?”

John wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, so naturally his brain resorted to stuttered, unfinished sentences. “No…yes…I don’t…Honestly didn’t think…”

John didn’t have to look at Mycroft to know an exaggerated eye-roll proceeded his next words. “Yes, this is all very touching, but you _died_ for a reason. That reason still stands.”

Sherlock’s attention went from a curious expression, which John didn’t know what to make of, in Johns direction to one of annoyance in his brothers direction.

“Do you honestly think that Moran isn’t aware of my miraculous resurrection? We stopped all pretences of hiding the second John fell off that building. If he hasn’t caught on by now then he really isn’t worthy of any more of my attention.”

Mycroft drew in a slow careful breath. “He knows John is alive and I am sure has made the connection that it was him that has been taking out his men, but you were admitted into hospital under a false name. When it became evident that it was John who was killing his men he must have realised that he wasn’t working alone, no offense John” Mycroft said, although it didn’t sound sincere, turning his attention to John, sitting on the couch, “But we are looking realistically at this. Anyone who has seen you type knows you would not be able to access the kind of information in order to track down these people.”

John didn’t miss Sherlock’s smirk and almost chuckle but he just shrugged his shoulder in acceptance. He wasn’t going to argue something that was so blatantly obvious and very muchly true. John had always known that, despite having an IQ on the higher side of average he was never the brains in this set up.

“It was after John was hospitalised that Moran started making ‘ _mistakes_ ’.” Mycroft continued, looking back to Sherlock who no longer had any trace of amusement over Mycroft’s former dig at John. “We believe that he was trying to draw out whoever was helping him. It is probably a good thing that you refused to help when you were in Italy. As long as you are off this case you can remain dead.”

“And you honestly think that Moran won’t watch the flat now that John is back in London” Sherlock scoffed.

“Just like at the hospital in Genoa we have set up heavy surveillance. We currently have eight points of surveillance set up along Baker Street, more can be acquired if we feel it is needed. If Moran comes within 500 feet of this apartment then we will know.

“And if he sends in a lackey?” This time it was John who voiced his concern. They had taken out so many of Moran’s men, but they had been major players. There was no way to know all of the smaller players.

“He won’t.” Sherlock sounded so sure of himself as he answered John, but not once did his gaze leave his brother. “This is too important. He wants to finish me off personally. But, what? I’m just supposed to stay holed up inside the apartment until you find a minion competent enough to actually bring Moran down?”

John felt his hand clench at the sound of bringing Moran down. Ever since Mycroft had approached him, in his drab flat, seventeen months ago John had wanted nothing more than to be able to put a bullet in that bastards head, but again, no-one was paying attention to him.

“It would be advisable” Mycroft answered in a tone that clearly stated that he was aware that his good advice would go unheeded. It was a tone that was often used around Sherlock.

“Well, it’s a good thing that I never feel the desire to follow your advice” Sherlock snapped. “This is my case now, Mycroft. I want everything that your people have collected on Moran since this all began” he instructed holding out his hand towards his brother.

Mycroft studied his brother for a few seconds and then a small smirk, eerily similar to Sherlock’s usual self-satisfied smirk, spread across his lips as he reached into his jackets inner pocket, producing a silver USB stick, and placed it in Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

John didn’t know if Sherlock was aware that he had just been played but if he was he didn’t seem to care.

“Welcome back little brother” Mycroft said, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “I shall start the task of announcing your return. Expect a visit from Mummy and Farther” and with that he left the flat, umbrella gently swinging by his side.

~o~

That night after Sherlock had cooked _and_ done most of the tidying up, John showered and headed upstairs for an early night. He had been correct when he had told Sherlock that Mycroft had more than likely returned his things to Baker Street when he had left London. Everything had not only been returned to Baker Street but had been unpacked and put away the exact way John had kept them when he lived here before. John didn’t linger on how creepy that was and was just grateful that he didn’t have to do it himself. While he was in the Shower Sherlock had brought John’s duffle up to his room, despite John telling him to leave it, and placed it on the end of his bed. John noted that it looked considerably emptier. Unzipping it and peering inside he saw that all of his dirty clothes had been removed. He had a sinking feeling that he would wake up tomorrow to shrunken and discoloured clothing. Trying not to dwell on the fate of his clothing John emptied the rest of the contents from his bag, placing them in their correct places and kicked the bag under his bed. Finally, after much anticipation since realising that he would be moving back to Baker Street, he pulled back the blankets and slipped into bed. He couldn’t stop the satisfied sigh that left his mouth. It wasn’t that the bed was luxuriously comfortable or the sheets ridiculously soft, but it was his and it felt safe and familiar. Between that and the knowledge that he was home, Sherlock was alive and home and they were going to be okay, John fell into one of the best sleeps he had had in almost two years.

~o~

The following morning John heard Sherlock leave his room and make his way into the kitchen as he slowly limped down the stairs, dressed, phone fully charged and in his pocket, current book in one hand, cursed cane in the other. With any luck he wouldn’t need to go back up to his room until it was time for bed again.

John walked into the kitchen and wasn’t surprised to see the table covered in chemistry equipment. What he was surprised to see was Sherlock whisking what looked like eggs in a red plastic bowl. Before, red plastic ware was off limits to experiments. They were solely for food preparation and storage only. John really hoped that this was still the case.

It was.

“Breakfast in ten minutes” Sherlock informed him, not looking up from his task.

“Great” John replied genuinely appreciative, as he made his way to the bathroom.

By the time he had finished in the bathroom Sherlock was carrying two mugs of tea to the table in the living room.

“Need a hand?” John asked, stopping in the kitchen.

“Not at all” Sherlock answered returning to the kitchen and gently pushing John in the direction of the living room. “Just go and make yourself comfortable.”

Cautiously John made his way to where Sherlock had placed the mugs and sat down. This overly helpful Sherlock was a bit unnerving. Within minutes of John seating himself Sherlock joined him, placing two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the table.

“You’re eating” John said as he observed Sherlock taking a bite of toast.

“I’m not on a case” he replied nonchalantly, picking up his mug and taking a sip.

“What about the USB stick that Mycroft gave you?” John asked, forking his eggs into equal piles on the pieces of toast.

“Haven’t looked at it yet. Why aren’t you drinking your tea? Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, Nope, fine…It’s good” John quickly took a sip of his tea before a thought occurred to him. “Hang on. Did you put something in it” he asked gently placing the cup on the table and pushing it away as if it might blow up at any minute.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Apart from water, tea and milk? No. Not this time.”

John relaxed and then the implication of what Sherlock had just suggested sunk in. How many times had he actually drugged John? John decided that he didn’t actually want to know, so he changed the subject.

“So, what’s with all of that,” he asked gesturing towards the kitchen, “If it’s not the case?”

“Mould” Sherlock answered around a mouthful of egg.

“Mould?” John asked, picking up his mug again.

Sherlock swallowed the food that was in his mouth and continued his explanation. “Yes. The mould cultures that have grown under the bathroom and kitchen sinks are new for this building. I have never seen them here before.”

“You regularly collected mould from our flat?” John knew he shouldn’t find this news unusual in any way, but it was a bit weird.

“Not just ours, But Flats A and C as well” Sherlock explained, finishing off his toast and it occurred to John that he hadn’t even started eating yet. “It’s a very interesting study. If you actually bothered to read my blog…” he finished with a shrug.

“Should I be worried?” John asked, finally taking a bite of his egg piled toast. “About, you know, new mould spores developing in our home?”

“Not at all” Sherlock assured him. “So far it is all harmless in small doses. I wish I had thought to organise someone to collect regularly timed samples while I was gone then I could have properly mapped the evolution of the mould spores from then to now. Oh, well. Can’t be helped.”

“Really? _That’s_ what you wished you had organised while you were gone?” John should have still been angry at the fact that Sherlock had pretended to be dead, but to be honest it was tiring and Sherlock had apologised and his reasons, albeit had been flawed, had also been good, so his statement came out as half-hearted annoyance rather than anger.

“You know what I mean” Sherlock waved off.

They sat in silence while John finished his breakfast. Just as he pushed his plate away the doorbell rang downstairs. John dreaded to think why the doorbell to their flat wasn’t working, because no doubt that caller would be for them.

“You going to get that?” John asked as Sherlock picked up the newspaper.

“Why” Sherlock mumbled from behind The Guardian. “If we wait long enough…”

Just then the sound of Mrs Hudson exiting her flat could be heard.

“You lazy git” John said grinning into his cup of tea, which had by now gone cold. “She’s 72.”

“Yes, and the more she keeps active the longer she will lead a happy, healthy life” Sherlock responded as a matter of factly.

John was going to reply but instead Mrs Hudson cheerful voice carried up the stairs. “Oh, hello Detective. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Good thanks” came Lestrade’s reply. He sounded stressed. “They home?”

“Just upstairs” Came Mrs Hudson’s reply and John could tell that she was still grinning, completely oblivious to the DI’s worries. “Just like old times. Isn’t it wonderful news!”

John looked to Sherlock. He looked positively charged, obviously with no inclination on how this next meeting would probably go.

“Fantastic. Sorry Mrs Hudson, but I’m sort of in a hurry.”

“Of course, dear. Just make your way up.” John could just envision her patting him on the shoulder before she stepped out of his way, not detecting the shit storm that was about to make its way into apartment B. Sherlock actually _bounced_ out of his chair.

“A case, John. Already!”

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that he was pretty sure that there was no case but Sherlock was up and heading across the room arriving at the door just in time to meet Greg. John figured the best way to deal with this was to let it ride out naturally.

“Graham….”

He was cut off and John winced as Greg’s fist connected with Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock staggered a few steps back and his hand came up to rub his jaw. John could just see him running his tongue over his lower teeth, checking for any dislodgement or chips.

“You utter bastard. And it’s GREG. Four fucking letters.” Lestrade roared.

“Do you often go around punching people who get your name wrong?” John saw Sherlock wince as fury flashed in Greg’s eyes and his right hand clenched into a fist again.

“You utter bastard. Do you have any idea what your little stunt did?” Greg asked. He was a lot quieter now, but that didn’t mean he was any less angry. In fact. He seemed angrier, if that was at all possible. And John could sympathise with him. He had seen what damage this whole fuck up had cost him.

“G…Greg, I can explain” Sherlock said, holding up a hand, clear surrender, in Greg’s direction.

“No. You can shut up and listen for once. After you decided to fling yourself off of a fucking building and letting the whole of London believe that you were a fraud my credibility was pulled into question. I was temporarily suspended for four weeks. Then when I was _allowed_ to return to my job I was demoted to Sargent. Do you know who got promoted into my position?”

John winced before Greg spoke because he already knew the answer. Judging by Sherlock’s wince he also knew the answer.

“Sally _fucking_ Donovan. Imagine what that was like.” Sherlock now had the grace to look down. Whether out of guilt or because Greg looked really fucking scary right now, John wasn’t sure.

“It took a further six months and a lot of pressure from above to get re-instated as a DI and even now some people won’t work with me.

“Do you know what it has been like you _absolute_ twat. And then to find out, not from you, but from your brother, before I had even had a chance to have my morning coffee, that you weren’t actually dead….Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bring you in for wasting police time.”

Sherlock was no longer looking sad and sorry for himself. In fact, he had that look on his face when he was contemplating a rather complex clue in a case. “Why would Mycroft contact you? First thing in the morning? He didn’t even inform Mrs Hudson.”

Lestrade threw his hands up in resigned frustration. “You know what. Never mind. I’d have more luck getting a straight answer from a schizophrenic clown.”

John snorted out a small laugh at that image and how it was probably more preferable than trying to have a conversation with Sherlock that Sherlock did not want to have.

“How are you doing?” Greg asked, finally acknowledging John, his entire persona calm, a complete contrast to ten seconds ago. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“Better for witnessing that” John answered, still chuckling as he nodded in the direction of Sherlock’s who was gently rubbing his jaw again. “Go put some ice on it already” John sighed, still grinning.

“You have no idea how much I wanted to do that when I saw him five weeks ago. That was a good hit.”

“Thanks” Greg said shaking his hand out a bit. “It felt good.”

John looked down at his friend’s hand. It was already starting to bruise. “You want some ice for that?”

“Nah. The pain will remind me why I feel so pissed off?” The last half of that sentence was directed at Sherlock who was just returning to living room, rolling his eyes, holding a bag of frozen peas to his face.

“Really Lestrade, don’t you think you are over reacting?” he pouted as he slumped into his arm chair, obviously not feeling that he would be welcome at the table. For once he got his social cues correct.

“Shut up. I’m not talking to you” Greg snapped.

“So I’m guessing there is no case then?”

If looks could kill, violently, John would be scraping parts of Sherlock off of the walls for quite some time. When Sherlock slunk further into his chair Greg turned back to John, again with a completely different expression.

“You doing okay now? Mycroft said you were in pretty bad shape.”

“Yeah, doing okay. Won’t be running around London for a while but I’m getting there.”

“So, I’m guessing you weren’t on holiday then?” He stated, rubbing absently at his jaw. John noted that he hadn’t shaved this morning. He must have left the house in a hurry, but he didn’t look angry or upset.

“I’m sorry Greg. I would have told you more, but…”

“Nah, I get it” he waved his hand in acceptance. “At least you kept in touch. It’s not like you let me think you were dead or anything.”

John couldn’t stop the smirk at the huff of annoyance that sounded from behind him. Without looking he knew how Sherlock was folded into his chair, full sulk mode engaged.

“We’ll have to catch up for a pint and I’ll fill you in on anything that I’m able to” John said to Greg. This idea seemed to perk the Detective Inspector up some. “Sounds great. Just send us a text whenever you feel up to it, yeah.”

“Certainly” John agreed.

“Well, as much as I would love to sit around and chat all morning, I really do actually have a murder to solve” Greg stated, standing up, readying to leave.

“The 18 year old in Hyde Park” Sherlock muttered from behind John. “It was the step-father. He arranged a meeting, online, not knowing it was his step-son. I dare say he panicked when he saw who his hook-up was and killed the boy in order to stop word getting back to his wife about his predilection to meet random young men for sex in public places. It wasn’t pre-meditated murder, but in the end it was most certainly wasn’t an accident either.”

John didn’t miss the look of absolute amazement that crossed over Greg’s face before being replaced with one of smugness. “Yeah, thanks but we finished that one last night. An arrest was made and a confession given. This one is a 47 year old history teacher.”

John heard the sound of Sherlock twisting in his seat. “Twenty minutes on the scene.” John couldn’t help but think he sounded almost hopeful.

“Not a hope in hell. Bye John. I’ll see you later” he said as Sherlock turned back in his seat to continue his sulk as Greg made his way out onto Baker Street.

John got up from the table and made his way over to his arm chair. As predicted, Sherlock was sitting, sideways, legs pulled up, wrapped in his long arms, chin resting on his knees pout and frown in place as he glared at the fire place, bag of peas wedged between shoulder and jaw. John couldn’t help but smile.

“Greg looks good” he said, trying to get a rise out of his flatmate. It worked. Sherlock averted his gaze away from the fireplace to throw a rather dark look at John.

“Come on, people are going to be upset or angry for a bit. He’ll calm down, just give him time.”

“He didn’t punch you” Sherlock practically whined.

“He didn’t grieve over me.”

Silence fell over the flat and Sherlock went back to staring at the fireplace, less sulky, more miserable.

“Do you have any plans for the day?” John asked, trying to lighten the heavy mood that had fallen over them.

It appeared to work as Sherlock’s interest appeared to pick up again. “I need to finish cataloguing the mould samples and then collect more from 221 A and C, and then I should look at the information Mycroft has gathered.  No doubt most of it will be useless. You?”

“Not much. I need to make an appointment to see a physiotherapist, but other than that, nothing really.”

Sherlock got up from his chair and stepped over to the mantel, grabbing a piece of paper. “Dr Aaron Michaels. 10:45 tomorrow. He comes highly recommended” Sherlock said, handing the note to John.

John looked down at the piece of scrap paper in his hand, ripped out of a notebook and covered in Sherlock’s spidery scrawl. “Um, thanks.” He said, because he really didn’t know what else to say. Sherlock had been looking after him since he had woken up in the hospital and while all the constant nannying had been strange the overall sentiment had been greatly appreciated. Was it just guilt or was it something else though? John thought he had seen something the few times he had caught Sherlock looking at him, but as soon as Sherlock noticed John looking (which was always straight away) a mask was raised and his usual look of indifference was set in place.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to John’s inner turmoil as he retreated towards the kitchen. “It was nothing” he called back. “Now if you don’t mind, I have mould waiting for me.”

“God forbid I get between you and a good mould sample” John muttered with mock offence.

“You can always try, John” Sherlock called back as John heard him replacing a slide in his microscope.

John sat in his chair and thought over Sherlock’s last comment. Did he want John to distract him? They had definitely moved closer together since Italy and John had already admitted to himself that he wished that they had had more but it still raised the question of whether Sherlock would want more too? And in light of everything could John really trust Sherlock? Enough?

~o~

Aaron Michaels lasted a whole 12 minutes before Sherlock had him running from the room, practically in tears. His replacement, an owner in the business, Dr Jessica Lewis was a much more suitable replacement. Not only did she refuse to put up with Sherlock’s bullshit, telling him that if he wasn’t going to sit in the corner and keep quiet then he was more than welcome to go sit out in the waiting room, but she also upped John’s exercises to brutal levels. This made Sherlock happy as it meant that he was able to participate, no longer exiled and silenced to the corner of the room. He was actually encouraged to voice his questions so long as they were about John’s rehabilitation and not about her personal life or the attainment of her qualifications. John was to return in a week.

~o~

It had been two days since the trip to the physiotherapist when John and Sherlock got another visitor.

They were half way through John’s exercises, which meant that Sherlock was starting to get pushy and John was starting to get snappy. This was partly due to the increase in physical exertion and partly due to his lack of sleep. (Apart from that first night back in Baker Street, John hadn’t had more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep at one time, and for once Sherlock wasn’t to blame. For three nights now John had gone to bed, exhausted, but unable to fall asleep. He tossed and turned as much as his injuries would allow, but something didn’t feel right. Something was missing. When he did eventually fall asleep it was only to find that the nightmares had returned. Nothing too violent, but disturbing enough to wake him up, breathless and covered in a fine layer of sweat. Some nights he was able to fall back to sleep. Other nights he was left staring up at the ceiling until the early morning light infiltrated his bedroom.) So, when there was a timid knock on the door John couldn’t have been more thankful. Pulling his arm from Sherlock’s grasp, John stood up and walked to the door, opening it to find Molly Hooper on the other side, who took one look at John and burst into tears, throwing her arms around his neck and sobbing a shaky, “I’m so sorry, John” into his shoulder. John winced at the dull pain that throbbed in his shoulder, currently released form the confines of the sling, opting to comfort Molly instead of pulling away.

The following two hours were spent comforting and reassuring Molly that she had nothing to be sorry for therefore John’s forgiveness wasn’t required. He understood why she had done what she had done and to be honest, he was thankful that Sherlock had someone he could turn to. John couldn’t bring himself to say, ‘ _Someone he could trust_ ’ because that left a hollow feeling in his gut that he refused to dwell upon. Although he didn’t like it he knew why Sherlock hadn’t contacted him to tell him the plan, and the fact that they were both still alive was good enough for John.

The fact that John was starting to get tired, not only of Molly’s need for reassurance but also because it was quite late in the afternoon, must have shown on his face because in between Molly apologising for the umpteenth time and reassuring herself that John was going to be okay, _again_ , Sherlock stood up and walked over to Molly, taking her hand and pulling her up off of the couch.

“It has been wonderful to see you again, Molly” Sherlock said, mock cheer in his voice, scary smile plastered on his face, as he ushered her towards the door, “But John and I have some work to do. Case to solve and all that, It’s so unfortunate that you will have to leave.”

Molly stood in the door way stuttering for something to say, looking to John for confirmation, who, quite honestly, couldn’t be arsed arguing the lie, so he just gave a half shrug and the apologetic smile that had become a familiar expression on his face since meeting Sherlock.

“By the way” Sherlock said, tipping his head to the side “You’re hair looks good that colour. Just a shade darker than normal. It was a good choice.”

John looked to Molly. He didn’t notice any change in her hair colour but her cheeks did blush an alarming shade of pink. She bit her bottom lip and smiled as her hand unconsciously pulled at the bottom of her pony tail.

“I…I guess I’ll see you around then” she stuttered. “I’m glad you’re doing better, John” she said looking to John. “Bye” she said, almost shyly as she looked back to Sherlock, then she turned and made her way out to the landing.

“Bye Molly” John called and Sherlock shut the door before she had a chance to turn around and come back in.

The first thought, once the door was shut, was to remind Sherlock that that was not how one treated guests but then he realised that if he had to hear one more ' _I really am sorry, John_ ’ he probably would have told her to leave himself. And it most likely wouldn’t have been as nice either.

Instead he looked to Sherlock, “Really? One shade darker?”

“She was going to apologise again. I could hear the words clunking around in her head. Anyone would think that she had partook in the slaughtering of everyone in your bloodline. It was either that or push her out of the flat and slam the door in her face. I figured you wouldn’t yell at me for the former.”

“Good call” John grinned and Sherlock smiled back. “She is lovely, but she does need to worry less.”

Sherlock’s smile dropped. “You’re tired” he stated. John didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t a question. “You haven’t been sleeping for more than a few hours at a time.”

“It’s fine” John said, none too convincingly. “I just need to recondition myself. It will take a while, that’s all.”

“You slept fine in the hospital” Sherlock commented.

“I really didn’t” John told him, although he had slept better there than he had been since being home, and of course Sherlock knew this already.

“But it was still better there than what it has been here. I know. I was there every night.”

John shrugged. There really was’t anything to add to it. It was the truth and so was the fact that John didn’t know why. He looked up to Sherlock who was cautiously studying him with narrow eyes. “We should finish your exercises” he finally said. John groaned and was about to refuse, but the look on Sherlock’s face said that that was not an option, so the next hour was spent pushing John to his limits.

~o~

John had just closed his book and was about to lean over and turn out his lamp when there was a quick knock at the door. Before he had a chance to acknowledge the knock the door opened and Sherlock strode into his room decked in his blue stripy pyjamas and red robe.

“Sherlock?” John asked as Sherlock made his way to the chair in the corner of Johns room and sat down.

“Don’t mind me John. You won’t even know that I am here” he said, whipping his phone out of his pocket and opening up some app.

“But, I do know that you are here. There real problem, though, is _why_ are you here?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone, towards John, with a small frown furrowed on his brow. “Because you are about to go to sleep.” was the answer that John got before Sherlock returned to whatever he was doing on his phone.

“Which still raises the question. _Why_ are you here?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone once more and let out a frustrated huff of air. "We established this earlier John. You slept better, in the hospital, when I was with you.”

“No, we didn’t…well, yes, we did, but it wasn’t in that context” John rushed out as he ran over that particular conversation in his head. Sherlock had commented on how he had slept better in the hospital but he only knew that because he had been there, not that the only reason John had slept better was because Sherlock had been there. Two completely different things.

“Of course it was John. You slept better, I was there. It was a simple deduction, one I was sure even you could have pieced together. Apparently I was wrong.”

John ignored the barb. “So, what? You are just going to sit in the chair all night, every night so I get a good nights sleep?”

“Don’t be absurd John. Just until you reach at least the second cycle of REM sleep.  The third if you don't seem settled enough. By then I should be able to be assured that you are at a lower risk of suffering nightmares.” And again, Sherlock went back to his phone.

“And, why are you doing this?” John asked, still bewildered that Sherlock was there at all.

John’s question seemed to catch Sherlock off guard as when he looked up at John he seemed a bit nervous. Once he seemed to clear his mind Sherlock looked back down at his phone and rattled off, “You get grumpy when you are tired and are less inclined to put up with my less than desirable behaviours. If I can get you to have a good night sleep, we both win, wouldn’t you say?”

A small wave of disappointment rolled through John. For a brief moment a small part of him had hoped that Sherlock was doing this because maybe he cared for John just a little bit more than standard friendship dictated. John pushed the disappointment aside and laid down in his bed, pulling the blankets up over his chest. Sherlock was clearly not going to leave.

“And what if it doesn’t work?” John said as he reached over to turn of the lamp, plunging the room into almost darkness. The only light was from Sherlock’s phone, lighting the detectives face up in an eery grey hue.

“Then I guess you will have someone to talk to rather than laying there and staring up at the ceiling.” came the flat, almost distracted response. The fact that Sherlock seemed rather absorbed in whatever was on his phone told John that conversation wasn’t wanted, regardless of what Sherlock and just said, so with that in mind John closed his eyes and listened to the night sounds of Baker Street, the quiet taps of Sherlocks fingers on the screen of his phone and the almost silent breathing coming from the corner. All of it was quite comforting and before long John was fast asleep.

When John woke in the morning it was almost eight o’clock. Although his dreams hadn’t been pleasant, they most certainly couldn’t have been called nightmares either. John sat up and looked around his room. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John rolled his neck and stretched as much as his body would allow him. It had only been one nigh but already he was feeling better. Last nights sleep had done him the world of good, Sherlock had been right, but he couldn’t rely on Sherlock sitting by his bedside every night now could he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It occurred to me as I wrote this chapter that I cannot, for the life of me, write Molly Hooper. I apologise to all the Molly fans, for her lack of substance in this chapter. I honestly did have more planned but I just couldn’t pen it :(


	13. 12 - Advancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are healing and moving on with their lives, progressing to what they once had, but Sherlock starts to notice small things that weren't there before the fall. Small things that may make what they have something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all my lovely littles, I am back. My placement is over and I have had a few days to dedicate to some of the more interestingly fun aspects of life before it is time to devout myself to assignments, assessments and late nights of study again, so of course, I used that time to create a new chapter for you all to read annnnnnd, here it is, all shiney and new and ready to be read!

They had been home for a month and the boys had settled back into a routine that strongly resembled what they had before everything went the wrong way up over the edge of St Bart’s roof.

In that time John’s cast had been removed and the pins had been removed from his collar bone. His limp was almost eradicated, enough to no longer need his cane again and both of them slept more soundly more regularly.

Sherlock still, on occasion, sat with John until he slept. He had learnt to recognise when John wouldn’t have an easy night. It was usually on nights following quiet days, when nothing happened. It was on these days that Sherlock would observe a slight tremor in John’s left hand while he handed over a cup of tea, or held up the newspaper. It was days like these that allowed John’s brain to run over events of the past. This then turned into visions invading his dreams, leaving him tossing and turning, waking up shaking and sweating after calling out in his sleep. On the odd occasion that Sherlock didn’t pick these nights in advance he would wake up to hear John thrashing around in his sleep, calling out. Usually it was a pained apology. Sherlock didn’t know what he was a apologising for but he could hazard a guess as to whom. Lives taken at his hands. Lives not saved from not being fast enough. Lives lost because he hadn’t been there. Friends, strangers, innocent and guilty. They all plagued John’s dreams, turning them from quiet and peaceful into something loud and terrifying. All of these people choreographing the horrors that filled John’s head whilst he slept but it was only ever one name that he called out.

 _Sherlock_.

But Sherlock rarely missed these nights and thanks to Lestrade finally realising that he had been grossly over reacting they had started getting cases agains. To start off with it was just small ones, due to the fact that Sherlock still needed to stay focused on the Moran case as well, but they still helped keep John’s mind occupied and his body exhausted so most nights he was able to sleep without having to be watched over.

Mycroft, actually being useful for something, had only taken four days to clear Sherlock’s name and announce his _‘return_ ’. Two days later Lestrade had been trying not to sound like he was pleading, and failing, for help with a locked room triple homicide. Much to Sherlock’s delight it had seemed most intriguing and had led them on a three day long journey through London’s dirtiest back streets only to find that it was sheer dumb luck that the killer had stayed unidentified for so long. The conclusion had been completely anticlimactic to the point that the guy was so stoned when they found him that he giggled when he and John stormed his apartment (more like a hovel) and nodded enthusiastically when Sherlock laid out, step-by-step, exactly what he had done. It wasn’t until he sobered up, in a jail cell at Scotland Yard, when panic started to set in and he started to deny all involvement, despite so much incriminating evidence being found at his residence that even Anderson couldn’t have mucked it up.

So Sherlock and John settled back into routine, Lestrade had lost his grudge, Molly had stopped apologising and John spent an unusual amount of time sitting in his chair. He sat in it every opportunity he got and if anyone, other than Mrs Hudson, sat in the chair they were rewarded with a glare that rivalled Sherlocks best one. Sherlock often caught his friend running his palms over the arms of the arm chair, slowly, as if he were caressing it and Sherlock ignored the little pop of jealousy that formed in his stomach when he witnessed it. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was healthy for someone to be so fixated on a chair, but John was happy so Sherlock thought no more about it.

Throughout the month John’s health progressed and he strengthened physically.

Mentally was another story, not that either of them talked about the nightmares that plagued both of their dreams, at least, not in daylight hours.

Mycroft, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, stopped by at least once a week to report on Moran. There wasn’t anything new. There never was. Moran didn’t want to be noticed, therefore he wouldn’t be. They had to sit back and wait for Moran to make his next move. Mycroft argued that this was a reckless plan. Sherlock argued that they were wasting their time on anything else, therefore he was not going to pursue the case any further until Moran made that move.

As payback for Sherlocks lack of cooperation Mycroft delivered their parents, personally, to the door of 221B Baker Street and then got a convenient _urgent call_ that he had to leave in order to resolve. They, his parents, had been unbearable. Horrifyingly pleasant. And John had thought them just wonderful. In turn they had loved John, which wasn’t unusual. Everyone loved John. John was unfailing loveable. So they had stayed for hours, telling John all sorts of embarrassing stories from Sherlocks childhood. Things he would have rather have stayed unmentioned as he could just see John squirrelling away these small facts and personal trinkets for future use. Quite possibly for blackmailing reasons. Just when he thought he was going to be rid of them Mrs Hudson returned home from bridge and that prolonged their stay to the point where John, for some reason unknown to Sherlock, felt the need to invite them to stay for dinner. Mother had been positively thrilled at the idea and before long enough Thai food to feed all of Bung Khla had been ordered for the five of them, which Sherlock refused to eat, out of spite until John practically forced a Choo Chee prawn down his throat.

Sherlock plotted the many ways he could get back at Mycroft, which made the evening slightly more tolerable.

Finally they left and it was just him and John again.

“That was not what I expected” John said, with the small grin that hadn’t left his face since Sherlock’s mother had hugged the smaller man.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked as he rifled through the top cupboard in the kitchen. He knew what he was looking for, but it wasn’t where he saw it last, therefore only paying a small amount of attention to his traitor of a flatmate.

“Your parents” John clarified. “They are really rather pleasant. Quite…normal.”

Sherlock spied what he was looking for in the bottom cupboard and grabbed it, along with two glasses, and made his way back into the living room.

“Now you know why I avoid them” Sherlock answered, placing the two crystal tumblers on the coffee table between him and John and opened the bottle of 37 year old Lagavulin Whiskey that had been purchased by whoever had originally restocked their cupboards before their arrival a month ago.

John huffed out a small laugh which caused Sherlock to smirk. “Well, I quite enjoyed their company. You should invite them around more often.” This comments elicited a rather stern glare from Sherlock in John’s direction.

“John. If you don’t want me to not like you anymore than I suggest you stop making inane suggestions” and he continued pouring the drinks.

“So, what’s the occasion?” John asked, picking up his glass.

“The eventual departure of my parents.” In actual fact he had wanted to break this bottle out after fifteen minutes of their presence in the flat but was worried that it would be construed as a social activity and that they would then take it as an invitation to stay longer. If only he had known.

“To the safe departure of loved ones” John toasted, taking a sip of the whiskey.

Sherlock frowned into his glass. “Not quite the message I was trying to convey.”

John just shrugged and for a while they sat there sipping their whiskey, the comfortable silence that had become the norm again settling around the two of them. The first round of whiskey ran out and was silently replaced by a second by Sherlock.

“I kept thinking I saw you, you know.” John’s voice broke the silence as he drained his glass for the second time. Sherlock looked away from the empty fire grate, where he had been staring blankly, to the man across from him, a questioning look on his face.

“When we were away and I thought you….I kept thinking I saw you. Everywhere. In fact, even before I left London.”

Ever since Sherlock had tried to apologise in the hospital in Genoa this topic had been avoided. Neither had tried to broach the subject of what had happened during their nineteen month separation. Apparently, for reasons yet unknown to Sherlock, John had decided now was the time that they discuss it.

“It would be in the most random places. Street corners, cafe’s, museums, airports. I’d look up and there you were. At first I believed it was you, but it never was.” Sherlock studied John as he spoke and a wave of guilt washed over him. A feeling that, by rights, he should be used to by now but it never got any better. Not once did John tear his eyes away from the glass that was slowly being rolled between his two palms, just above his lap.

A few seconds slowly ticked by stretching what seemed to feel like eons before Sherlock responded.

“If it helps any, it is a possibility that it was me.” At this John looked up and Sherlock continued. “Every now and then, before I…we left London, I did follow you around. I needed to see you. To make sure that Moriarty, even though dead, had kept to his word and that you were no longer in danger.” John didn’t need to know that it was on an almost daily basis that Sherlock would seek John out and shadow him around the streets of London. He also didn’t need to know that the reasons for following John were purely selfish reasons. “We probably also unknowingly crossed paths during our travels as well, although it only would have been when completely necessary. Mycroft would not have risked us seeing each other if he could have helped it.” The last sentence was said with a sneer. Sherlock still felt a certain detestation towards his brother for not allowing the two of them to work together. He felt a stronger loathing towards himself for not just involving John from the start despite what his brother said.

Sherlock refilled their once again empty glasses to distract himself from those thoughts. Guilt and self loathing were not feelings he was used to.

“Tell me about it” John said, picking up his glass again.

Sherlock sent John a questioning frown at his statement as he to picked up his glass.

“Your time away. Tell me about it. I mean, I know what happened with me. I want to know about your side of it all.”

Sherlock looked down into his glass and gently swirled the amber liquid around, watching it slosh up the sides as it moved.

With a slow inhale Sherlock spoke. “There is not much to tell. It was really just a series of cases. After I ju….after Bart’s I stayed in London for three months starting the hunt for Moriarty’s players. We found three. I would have liked to have started hunting them straight away but Mycroft was adamant that he have one specific final player on the team” Sherlock extended his hand holding the glass in John’s direction, the liquid sliding up the side of the glass before resettling, indicating that John was that final player. A nod from the man across from him confirmed that John understood and Sherlock continued. “Australia was pure frustration. I had to be there in order to organise the meet but, as you are aware, we were delayed. Thankfully there was an old murder, courtesy of our very own Jason Bartem, that I could focus on until he kindly returned back to where he was meant to be all along. I needed to move. There was no more information to be found from Bartem. I had to get to the next player before I could get more information. It was already taking too long and we had only just started.

“It was in Kalgoorlie that I thought that _I_ was going crazy. The night before I met with Bartem I thought I saw you going into some pub. I put it down to the insistent heat and continued. After all, you were in rainy London tending to the mind numbingly ill.”

Again there was silence as Sherlock finished off his third glass of whiskey. This time John filled their glasses.

“I thought I saw you in Albuquerque, at the airport, but I was busy being spoken down to, like a child, by Mycroft for missing my first plane.  I didn't pursue it as I knew it couldn't possibly be true.”

“I saw you” John said quietly. “Your hair wasn’t…” and his hand waved around the top of his own head in what Sherlock believed to be an indication of his own riotous curls. “And it was…the wrong colour.”

Sherlock nodded. It had been the first time he had had to alter his disguise further than a change of wardrobe. “That was me” Sherlock confirmed quietly as the realisation that, had he taken five extra seconds to actually give into what he thought was a trick of the mind, they could have avoided so much heart ache. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and continued.

“In actual fact, out of the many towns, villages, cities, empty stretches of vast land and air space we had visited during that time we probably only spent a total of approximately two weeks in close proximity to each other. I know for a fact that I was often leaving a town as you were entering it or was under house arrest, due to my cover being blown, until you were done doing the hit. I know Mycroft scheduled our travel times at different airports, when possible, after my failed attempts at trying to figure out who you were. He became disgustingly suspicious after that. I should have suspected something then. Right from the beginning, when he wouldn’t tell me who you were, but I was so focused on getting the job finished. Sometimes I didn’t even need to be in the same country as you. There were six meets in total that I had orchestrated from a hotel room in another country, which allowed me more time to set up the more complicated meetings.” Sherlock raised the glass to his lips and was mid sip when he realised that he hadn’t even seen John refill his glass.

“Serbia was probably the closest you got to finding out who I was. I almost ruined the whole thing with that mistake.” Silence fell over the room and it wasn’t the comfortable sort. Sherlock knew John must have had an idea of what had happened to him. He would have been told what he needed to know, which wouldn’t have been much, and he would have connected, not all, but a lot of the dots himself. he didn’t need Sherlock to explain in detail what had happened. It was him, after all, that had made sure no one was left alive to follow them once they escaped.

“It really was sixteen months of adopting new names and personalities and rubbing elbows with the scum of the Earth to find out much needed information to bring down the next player. That was Moriarty’s downfall. He had a web. A web interconnects, every string attaching to another and then another, so eventually, pulling down one strand at a time, the web disappears. In order to have a smooth running, successful organisation he had to sacrifice the complete anonymity and independence of each player. Every person in that web was a weakness to at least one other player. It was the flaw in an almost perfect system and I was all too happy to exploit that flaw and use it in the downfall of his little empire.” Sherlock looked up to John. Now it was his turn to be looking at the cold fire place. "What about you?”

A small smile flitted across John’s mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes and Sherlock instantly regretted asking the question. He hadn’t wanted to bring up all of the things John had done. It thad been four nights so far without nightmares. Sherlock _had been_ hoping to make it five.

Finally, John answered. “I sat around waiting for an email or a text message. Sometimes I went out and saw the sights, but usually I stayed in my room or close to the hotel. I picked up my PT from the army again but that stopped in Genoa. Now that everything is almost healed I might pick it up again” he said, almost absently, still staring into the fireplace. That only meant that he missed Sherlocks small scowl. He didn’t want John to go back to what he had seen in the hospital room, all hard lines and sharp angles. That wasn't the John that he had come to admire. He would have to find a way to subtly stop this from happening, even if it meant taking an ‘ _interest_ ’ in crap telly and badly written spy movies with regular orders of Chinese and Italian take away in order to entice John to spend more time on the couch.

“I couldn’t believe it when I found myself back in bloody Afghanistan again. Anyone would think I hadn’t had enough of that the first two times around.” John turned his attention from the fireplace to Sherlock. “I thought I saw you there. Adjusting a keffiyeh and entering a crumbled down merchants shop just out of the Kunduz markets.”

Sherlock quickly thought back to that day. (He had only spent one and a half days in Afghanistan.) He remembered it well, and not for pleasant reasons. With an unamused frown he looked John in the eye and asked “How did you survive there for so long. I wasn’t even there for a full day and I was as red as a lobster. I had to cover from head to toe for fear of my skin actually blistering and peeling away.”

John grinned. “That’s what you get for having flawless alabaster skin my friend.”

Sherlock ignored the way his stomach clenched at the sound of John complimenting his skin. It was nothing but an observation. And quite correct, even if it was a curse.

Sherlock drained his glass as he watched John do the same and John poured them both another whiskey as he continued his story. “I did want to say, though, that you are a right fucking arse.”

Sherlock was about to bring his glass to his lips and missed at the sudden turn of John’s words, a small dribble of whiskey tipping out of the glass and onto his shirt. Luckily John was recapping the bottle at the time and didn’t see Sherlocks maladroitness. Quickly he wiped his chin and the front of his shirt, thankful that he had worn his black shirt today. Just as he finished wiping away the evidence of the misplaced whiskey John looked up.

“Did you purposely find the most awkward places for me to try and take out those bastards. I mean, do you know how hard it is to conceal yourself in an advantageous hiding place inside a fucking car park? The walk in fridge would have had to have been my favourite though. That really got the creative juices flowing.”

There was a scowl on John’s face, but the twinkle in his eyes dulled its effect and Sherlock smiled back at him. “You know how I work John. Simple is boring. I like a least a bit of a challenge.”

John snorted out a laugh at this and Sherlock realised that John was a little bit drunk. He realised he might also be a little bit drunk when he followed with his own short snort of laughter.

“We shouldn’t be laughing” John said, trying to sound serious. “It’s not a funny subject.” But a small giggle escaped his lips anyway.

The two of them sat there in silence again as they sipped their whiskey.

“Did you think of me at all?” he asked after he drained his glass again. There was no sadness. No anger. It was a question, plain and simple but Sherlock didn’t need to think about the answer.

“I only thought of you. It’s why I did it all in the first place. I almost didn’t leave London. As I said before, I used to follow you just to make sure you were all right, and I knew that when I left I wouldn’t even have that. Mycroft kept me updated, well, I say updated…” Sherlock trailed off, not wanting to think about Mycroft. There was no heat to his answer, no accusation that John thought him heartless. It was an answer. Plain and simple.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you” John said, reaching over to grab the bottle of whiskey. Sherlock placed his cup on the table to be refilled. “I thought I was going mad. Everywhere I went I saw you, I couldn’t shake you. Then when I was in Moscow I realised…well, it doesn’t matter. I suppose I should be happy that I wasn’t actually going mad after all.”

Sherlock looked down into he freshly filled glass. Quietly he said “I saw you too, John. But I never believed it was you. You were supposed to be here, in London, with a perfectly dull job and an even duller girl…girlfriend. You should never have been there.”

At this a heat did light Johns eyes as a small frown formed on his brow. “Did you honestly expect me to just sit around and go back to all of that? Did you honestly think that I would be content with that life again?”

“I suppose not” was the only answer Sherlock could give.

~o~

Sherlock cursed the sunlight and the noise of life outside of their building. He cursed Mrs Hudson’s vacuum cleaner and he cursed the need to urinate. Most of all he cursed Lagavulin whiskey. Sherlock wasn’t a big drinker and he never drank to get drunk, therefore his body didn’t handle the after effects of alcohol too well, and in a fairly short amount of time both he and John had polished off over three quarters of a bottle of whiskey. After their discussion that had sat and drank in silence until John ordered Sherlock to go to bed after the detective had started to doze off in his chair. He had gone to protest but John had practically dragged him from his chair and forcefully (as much as the alcohol in his system would allow) pushed him in the direction of his room, where Sherlock had manage to kick off his shoes, unbutton his shirt and remove one sock before falling onto the bed and instantly falling asleep.

With slow, careful movements he made his way up off of the bed and headed into the bathroom, completely removing his shirt along the way, letting it fall to the floor in the doorway between his room and the bathroom. After he had emptied his bladder he decided that he could no longer stand the feeling of what must be equivalent of road kill in his mouth and brushed his teeth, since he was already standing in front of the sink. He couldn’t guarantee that he would make it there again if he were to lay back down in his bed. Once he brushed his teeth he pulled a bottle of paracetamol out of the cupboard and downed three. He was about to head back to his bedroom when he heard John moving about in the kitchen. Instead he made his way out to the living area, snagging his dressing gown off of the bathroom door on the way.

“Morning” John said cheerily as Sherlock shuffled into the room. Sherlock just mumbled something unintelligible to even his own ears and made his way to the couch where he preceded to flop down and pull the front of his dressing gown over his head as he curled up with his back to the room. A few moments later he heard John place something on the coffee table, which he then dragged closer to the couch where Sherlock was laying. The detective grit his teeth at the sound of the small piece of furniture grating against the floorboards, even if it was softly.

“Get something in your stomach” John said, making his way back into the kitchen. “You will feel better for it.” Sherlock just grumbled. He wasn’t a child. He knew how to handle a hangover and, judging by the smells currently making his stomach swirl around uncomfortable, coffee and toast was not the way to go about it. He heard John hum quietly in the kitchen as he tidied up the mess he had made from breakfast and Sherlock grumbled again. How was John not feeling as miserable as him? He had had just as much whiskey. Even if he didn’t feel as wretched as Sherlock currently did he still shouldn’t be in the mood to _hum_. Sherlock wanted to tell him to shut up but the thought of talking made his head throb so he just rolled himself into a tighter ball and ignored as much external stimuli as possible.

John must have, at some stage, got the hint because the next thing Sherlock knew there was a blanket over him, his lone sock had been removed and the flat was quiet. Too quiet. Empty.

Suddenly Sherlock was sitting up, blanket sliding to the floor, wide awake. Why was the flat empty? Where was John? Quickly he made his way to the kitchen, ignoring the slight spinning of his head. A cursory look down the hall showed both his bedroom and the bathroom door open, so John was in neither. The next stop was John’s bedroom, also empty. This was not usual behaviour for John. He very rarely left the flat alone. The only times were when he went to the shop, which Sherlock refused to do after their first attempt or to meet Lestrade at the pub on Friday’s which Sherlock was banned from attending, also after their first attempt. John had done the shopping yesterday and it was Monday and not even 2pm, so where was John? And why hadn’t he let Sherlock know where he was?

“Mrs Hudson” he yelled, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his trousers as he flew back down the stairs, listing all the reasons it would have been impossible for Moran to get to John while he was in the flat.

He made it halfway down the flight of stairs and had just sent of a text to John, inquiring as to his whereabouts, when Mrs Hudson came out to look into all of the racket that Sherlock was making.

“Have you seen John this morning?”he asked, practically draping himself over the banister to get a better look at his landlady.

“He went out, about an hour ago.” The frown on her face told how she was confused at Sherlock’s outburst and also concerned over Sherlock's own worry.

“Did he say where?” Sherlock demanded.

“No, just wished me a good mor….”

Sherlock didn’t hear the rest. It was unimportant. It wasn’t John’s exact location. Instead he turned around and headed back up to apartment B as he typed out another text.

**I need John’s location, now! SH**

It was less than a minute before the reply came, in which Sherlock had already established a frantic pace across the living room floor.

**16 Queen Anne Street. Agent Wilson is close by. MH**

Sherlocks pacing stopped immediately as he read the message again. Queen Anne Street. He was at his physiotherapy appointment.

Sherlock slumped down in his arm chair and frowned at the bottle of whiskey still sitting on the coffee table. It was to blame for this. If the contents of Sherlocks head hadn’t been reduced to orange pulp he would have remembered what day it was and exactly where John had been. He wouldn’t have been all frantic. Annoyed that John hadn’t woken him up so Sherlock could join him, but not panicked. It wasn’t something that he liked to feel. It wasn’t something that he had experienced since childhood. Not until John Watson entered his life. Since then he had panicked on numerous occasions and all over one certain army-doctor.

He looked back down at his phone as it vibrated in his hand and lit up with a new message. Seeing John’s name appear on the screen he quickly swiped his thumb over it, retrieving the message.

**Was at physio. Just finished. Will be home in about 20 minutes.**

At reading John’s message Sherlocks leg stopped its rapid up and down bouncing. It wasn’t until it stopped that he realised he had been doing it.

What felt like hours later, but was presumably twenty minutes, Sherlock heard the front door open, followed by John’s uneven gait up the stairs. By the time John entered the flat Sherlock was standing, waiting to see with his own eyes that John _was_ okay. He stopped his fidgeting fingers and held his hands to his sides, trying to look calm. It obviously didn’t work, for as John entered the room his greeting smile dropped as he took in Sherlock’s rigid posture and apparently not so clam expression.

“Hey, is everything all right?” he asked taking a step towards Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned, trying to hide the fact that he had been panicking over Johns disappearance. “Of course everything is all right. Why wouldn’t it be?” but his tone was lacking its usual condescension.

“Sherlock” John said moving closer to John. “You _did_ know where I was, yeah? You weren’t worried?”

Sherlock wanted to answer that _yes_ he knew where John was and _no_ he wasn’t worried but what came out of his mouth was a tight “No, yes.”

Something in John’s expression changed at that. His face somehow became softer and he raised his hand. Sherlock waited for it to fall on his shoulder and give it a comforting squeeze as was the norm, but the hand never landed on his shoulder. Instead it rested against his cheek.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock” John said quietly, a small but concerned smile on his lips. “I thought you would either sleep for another hour or two or remember I had an appointment today. If I had know….I didn’t want to wake you up. You seemed to be suffering from a pretty wicked hangover this morning, I thought I’d let you sleep it off.”

Sherlock frowned at the mention of the hangover. The frowned deepened as John’s hand, ( _soft, warm, worn, comforting_ ), fell away from his face as the doctor turned towards the kitchen.

“Tea?” he called as he stepped further away from Sherlock and closer to the kettle.

“Mmmm” was the only response Sherlock gave as his mind was racing with a dozen questions or more.

_‘Why did John touch my cheek?’ ‘What did John mean by touching my cheek?’ ‘Did something happen last night that I had forgotten about that changed the way John comforted?’ ‘Does he do this to other people?’ ‘How do I feel about John touching my cheek?’ ‘How can I get John to do this again?’_

By the time Sherlock had finished analysing all of the questions that were over-running his normal thought process some time must have passed as John was sitting in his arm chair, half of his own tea gone, two pages into the paper that he was holding.

Abruptly Sherlock walked to his chair and dropped down in it, reaching for his own, now tepid, cup of tea.  As he sipped from his cup he studied the top of John’s head that was poking over the top of the _The Telegraph_.  As he watched and sipped his tea he ran through their interactions since returning from Italy. Not once had John done something so…intimate. This was definitely different. Something had changed, which caused Sherlocks stomach to tighten in excited anticipation but he refused to let his hopes rise that maybe John was amiable to move their relationship further than friendship. This was one incident. It didn’t really prove anything.

He needed more proof. He needed to find out, without being too suspect, if John meant anything by caressing his cheek. Something in their relationship had shifted and Sherlock was determined to make sure that the direction would work in his favour before acting on it.

~o~

Three days since Sherlock’s _slight_ panic attack had passed. Three days since John had laid his hand on Sherlocks cheek. Three days since Sherlock let a little bit of hope spark at the thought of a proper relationship with John.

Since that time Sherlock had been observing and analysing all of their interactions closely.   John had been standing closer.  When they walked together John’s arm would occasionally brush against Sherlocks. He smiled more at Sherlock, and sat next to him on the couch more often, rather than going to his arm chair (which said a lot considering how much John had come to obsess over that chair since returning to Baker Street.

Two nights ago Sherlock had been laying on the couch and John had lifted up Sherlocks feet, sat on the couch and placed Sherlocks feet in his lap before settling in to watch Top Gear. Sherlock had spent a good five minutes looking from his feet in John’s lap, to the doctors face and then back at his feet. John didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, he paid no further attention to Sherlock. He just chuckled as someone tried to navigate a 3-wheeled car, unsuccessfully one might add. Sherlock decided to continue answering the message he had been half way through composing before John had disturbed his position and tried not to think anymore about it.

Yesterday he had walked past Sherlock, who had spent a majority of his day behind his microscope in their kitchen looking at fluid samples from various different boils and blisters, and ruffled the detectives hair on the way past. Sherlock had been glad he was sitting down as if he hadn’t been he surely would have fallen down, so surprised he had been at the action.

“I’m going to get milk” John had told him and Sherlock spent the whole time John was at the shop analysing the action and his own reaction to it. It was then that he decided that he had to do some experimenting of his own in order to get the final results that he needed to determine where their relationship was heading.

So it was after a restless night of planning and plotting that Sherlock started initiating his own touches towards John. In the morning he had copied John’s own action and ruffled the doctors hair as he passed him in the kitchen. John ducked his head and told the detective to piss off, but it was said with a laugh, so Sherlock was not discouraged. He sat closer to John in the back of the taxi as they rode towards a crime scene. It had been worth the disappointment of the case which had barely registered as a two and had only takes twenty-seven minutes to solve. During the time at the crime scene Sherlock had grabbed John’s hand to pull him over to view the body and John hadn’t pulled his hand away, even after he was standing over the corpse, despite there being at least 7 officers roaming around to witness his hand lightly clutched in Sherlock’s.

Later that night, as the two sat rather close to each other on the couch eating Chinese while John tried to guess, poorly, at the correct valuations on Antiques Roadshow, Sherlock stole a piece of satay chicken off of John’s plate. He didn’t complain. Nor did he complain when Sherlock stole a piece of broccoli, despite the pile of vegetables on his own plate. A few minutes later John’s fork, (he still hadn’t mastered chopsticks despite Sherlocks efforts), snuck onto Sherlocks plate and stole a sweet and sour shrimp. This went on for the remainder of the meal.

As the ending music for the second episode of Antiques Roadshow sounded John still hadn’t guessed the correct price again and all food had been consumed off of both of their plates, John stood up.

“Tea?” he asked heading in the direction of the kitchen without waiting for a reply. It didn’t matter, John would make him one anyway. As John set about preparing the tea Sherlock collected the containers their food had arrived in and carried them to the kitchen to throw in the bin. As he turned around John was behind him with a cup of tea in his hand, offering it to Sherlock.

It was as his hand wrapped around the mug, his fingertips brushing the base of John’s palm that Sherlock thought, “ _Bugger it. It is either now or never and never is not an option I am willing to live with_.” With that resolve he stepped forward, lowered his head and, gently, placed his lips against those of John Watson’s.

It was at that point in time that the clock stopped ticking, the traffic stopped moving, the sun ceased to set and rise. It was that brief moment in time that the world stopped spinning. At that one moment in history Sherlock and John were together, for the first time, as one and Sherlocks brain stuttered to a halt as he realised that not only had he taken the next step and was kissing John Watson but John Watson was kissing him back.

The kiss was not frenzied or filled with lust but was slow and intimate. It was a soft slide of lips against lips, small huffs of breath against the others cheek, eyes closed as one man took in the smell and the sounds and the feel of the other man in front of him.

It was their first kiss and one of what Sherlock hoped would be many and it was being committed to his mind palace at that very moment so he could look back and have this moment over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If you want to know how happy we all are that the boys finally got there shit together then check out this YouTube clip that made me giggle uncontrollably for 2 minutes and 54 seconds!! (The look on John’s face says it all!!!!!!) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjDKFNgQ6-Q&feature=share
> 
> **If you have never seen Jeremy Clarkson trying to navigate a Reliant Robin check out this video. I chuckle every time I see it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQh56geU0X8
> 
> *** Keffiyeh is a traditional middle Eastern headdress. I apologise if it is spelt incorrectly as their were different variations on the internet. This way was the more commonly used option.


	14. 13 - Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock break down that final wall that is between them, only to find out that they have had a silent spectator watching them, one who is now ready to make his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the next chapter. Written (many times over) with love and frustration and a lot of fucking hair pulling (and not the good sort either) because every time I wrote this chapter John came across as a whiney little bitch, which we all know he is anything but. Hopefully it doesn't come across as this now.  
> So read, enjoy, or sort of like, and feel free to leave me a comment. Or a packet of jaffa cakes, because the only shop that I know of that stocks them, within walking distance, has run out :(

It had been almost a week, 5 days and close to twenty one hours since Sherlock had leant forward, as John handed him his cup of tea, and kissed him. Nearly 153 hours since John and Sherlock had become, well, John & Sherlock. Really, not much had changed at all in that time but things were monumentally different.

They still got calls at all hours of the day and night from Lestrade and private clients, enticing them on cases that lead them all over London, but there was no more tiptoeing around each other, afraid that the other didn’t feel the same way as they did.

Sherlock still got frustrated at the lack of use of John’s observational skills and John still got exasperated over Sherlocks lack of, well, societal proprieties but there were no more longing glances when one was sure the other wasn't looking.

There were arguments over blog posts and body parts but there was no more pining or wishful thinking. As partners they could pre-empt the others move on a case so verbal communication wasn’t necessary but they still fumbled and hesitated in their new found roles as _partners_ , although, they were getting better.

John still made tea and had to practically force Sherlock to eat during cases but Sherlock complained less about being bored during down time and didn’t mind John touching him while he thought. In fact, John had noticed that he seemed particularly fond of resting his head on Johns lap, letting John card his fingers through his hair while he thought. He had actually pulled John up out of his arm chair the other day and sat him on the couch, Just so he could do this while he ran through the facts on the case they were working. The case of the man with the twisted lip. John was still trying to think of a title.

They hadn’t bothered to hide their relationship, as face it, everyone had already believed that they were in one anyway, but no one had said anything. He had expected to receive snide comments from Donovan and Anderson but to be honest, since they returned neither member of the police force had really spoken to them much and when they had it had been almost contrite. (Almost, but not quite.)

John hadn’t even bothered pretending that Mycroft didn’t know about the change in their relationship. Although surveillance equipment had only been set up on the outside of the building and in the front hall and stairwell of the building (Sherlocks stipulations that John had had no intentions of arguing against)there still would have been tell tale signs that only one of the Holmes brothers would have picked up on. This had been confirmed two days after Sherlock had kissed him when Mycroft paid one of his visits with a condescending grin and a “ _I see congratulations are in order, brother dear_.” It was followed by a “P _iss off Mycroft. I can tell by the way you came up the stairs that you have no further useful information and your company is not wanted, so if you would please return back to your little cave of secrets, lies and not so much mystery_ , (John knew it was a bad idea getting Sherlock into Batman), t _hen I may actually manage to have a good day. Goodbye_!” from Sherlock.

There was an ease between them that wasn’t there before, even before the fall that allowed them to fall into their new relationship with relative ease. It allowed them to function as they had before while still incorporating these new features into their everyday life. They still moved around the flat with ease, although on times one of them was stopped to be pulled into an embrace or stopped so the other could place a kiss on their lips or eyes or cheek or neck or anywhere they felt the need to lay their lips. They sat next to each other in taxis and on the couch, which wasn’t unusual in itself, but now they sat close enough so their legs touched and their fingers could interlace. Most of the small things had slotted into their lives almost naturally. What hadn’t didn’t take long to figure out.

They still managed to do their own things. John had started catching up with Greg every Friday for a pint at the pub. Sherlock still went to Barts in order to manipulate Molly into letting him take body parts from the morgue. Mrs Hudson still insisted that she was not their housekeeper as she washed up their tea dishes.

Sherlock still waited patiently.

So, not much had changed in their relationship in the past nearly 153 hours, including the fact that they still went their own way at the end of the night.

Despite all of the changes and the renewed sense of comfort that the two had achieved together there was also something holding them back from taking the step from chaste to something a bit more physical.

John knew that that something was him.

John would never, in a thousand years, have guessed that were Sherlock to want to pursue a relationship with him that he would move this slow. He had always assumed that if Sherlock were to enter into a relationship he would handle it the same way he handled everything else. With guns blazing, taking what he wanted when he wanted. Patience was not a strong point of Sherlocks, not when what he wanted was right there in front of him, ready for him to reach out and grab. He was pushy and manipulative and didn’t stop until he had things just the way he wanted them, and John knew that he wanted to push the relationship further. He could feel when Sherlock would restrain himself from pushing things further. He saw the conflict in Sherlocks face, when John pulled away and Sherlock wanted to pull him back, but deciding to let John move at his own pace. He had felt the other mans erection, the one that Sherlock had tried valiantly to prevent from brushing against John’s thigh, last night when they were making out on the couch, the forgotten movie playing mutely in the background. And he saw the almost concealed hurt in Sherlocks eyes every time John kissed him goodnight and went up to his room. Alone. But he held back. He slowed down. He maintained that final distance. And he did it for John, because he knew John wasn’t quite ready yet, and for that John was grateful.

The most frustrating thing in this whole thing, though, was that John wanted to move along as well. He wanted to give all of himself over to Sherlock and he wanted to take everything that Sherlock had to give him as well, but there was that nagging little voice in the back of his head that told him that this had all been ripped away before, it could be ripped away again. It whispered what life would be like when Sherlock left him again, how he would have nothing left of himself because once he gave all of himself to Sherlock he would never own it again. He knew that what he felt for Sherlock was nothing like what he had ever felt for anyone before and that it was forever. No matter what happened, the second he let himself be fully consumed by Sherlock Holmes there would never ever be anyone else and John wasn’t sure he could survive if Sherlock left, taking John’s heart with him.

So he went to his own bed each night, alone. Once Sherlock had sat with him, warding off the nightmares that he knew would try and come later that night. It had taken John longer than usual to fall asleep, more aware than ever that Sherlock was in his room. He had half expected to wake up to find Sherlock in his bed with him, but when his eyes opened in the morning he was alone, as always. And he hated it. He hated sleeping alone and waking alone, knowing that Sherlock was in another bed on the floor below him. But every night, when he thought about asking to sleep in Sherlocks bed, or asking Sherlock to sleep in his, just to sleep, the voice in his head laughed and told him that it wouldn’t be just sleeping. It would be touching and kissing and they all knew what that lead to. It would end up with John handing over that final part of himself and then he would have nothing left when he was alone again. So he kissed Sherlock goodnight and went up to his own bed, alone.

John hated that little voice. It was snarky and insidious and just fucking annoying. He was starting to wonder if he should get checked out for a brain tumour or something but not only would Sherlock know what he was doing and worry unnecessarily but it would also be a waste of time. John knew that voice. It was an old acquaintance. One that had him doubting himself through medical school. It was the one that spoke to him after he returned home from Afghanistan. The one that told him he was no longer useful. The one that reminded him where he kept his loaded gun.

And that voice was the reason why John was sitting on a park bench watching people walk past, ignoring the unassuming wool and denim clad man sitting on the bench, hands jammed in his pockets because he hadn’t thought to grab his gloves before he left the flat; an even more unassuming SIS agent not standing too far away apparently enjoying watching the ducks on the pond.

It hadn’t been anything in particular that had set the little voice nagging in the back of his head. It had been an ordinary day with the two of them doing ordinary things. Sherlock had been pinning a splayed liver open on their new chopping board, John had been typing up their latest case while trying to think of the best medium to scrub the chopping board with later.

John’s nose twitched as the smell of burning flesh reached him and he looked up to see Sherlock with an electrocauter doing god knows what to the liver. John really didn’t want to know. That’s when the voice started talking again.

“ _You don’t want to know because you wont understand_ ” it said. “A _nd you will never understand Sherlock. That’s why you will never truly be able to have him, not really. Not forever. The thrill of the chase will take over again. Another big case. One that you won’t understand. He’ll leave you again_.”

At that John slammed the lid of his laptop closed and stood up. He needed to get out for a bit. Fresh air. He needed to clear his head.

John standing up abruptly caused Sherlock to stop cutting through the liver tissue and to look up at him. John could see his mouth preparing to ask what was wrong, so he cut him off before John had to lie in order to answer him.

“I’m just going for a walk. Get a bit of fresh air” he said quickly, avoiding Sherlocks eyes as he made his way to his coat, hanging next to Sherlocks on the hook.

Sherlock shut down the electrocauter and went to stand up. “No” John interjected before Sherlock could offer to join him. “I won’t be long. Just need to stretch my legs.” Sherlock, obviously heard the words John wasn’t saying. That he needed time alone (well, as alone as being constantly tailed by SIS agents will allow you to be) and sat back down but there was a look of concern on his face as he gave a short nod in acceptance and John turned and walked out of the flat.

So now, here he was, sitting in the cool, early evening, late autumn air staring at nothing on particular while his toes started to feel numb due to inactivity and cold weather. It was ridiculous. He had a perfectly warm flat at home, and an even more perfectly warmer body to wrap around, yet here he was, sitting on a hard bench out in the dark, cold night.

“ _Get used to it_ ” the voice whispered. “ _That’s what it is going to be like all of the time when he leaves again_.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the voice out. This was getting out of hand. Ever since Sherlock had kissed him that first time the voice had been getting more and more persistent. He needed to put a stop to this now before he ended up going crazy. Without another thought he stood up and made his way back to Baker Street, the ever present agent no more than 10 feet away at all times, stopping only once to grab dinner from a little greek restaurant that had moved in while they were away.

“I grabbed something for dinner” John announced as he walked into the flat. “I hope you like either kokkinisto or paidakia” he announced walking into the kitchen. Sherlock had finished with the liver and was actually tidying up all of his equipment so there was room to place the bag of take away on the table. As John started unpacking the bag he felt long arms sneak around his waist as Sherlock pressed against his back, lowering his head down to nuzzle just under Johns ear.

“How can I make it right?” he whispered.

John slowly inhaled, the smell of Sherlocks shampoo and chemicals filling his nostrils and it somehow calmed him to the point where he let himself lean back into Sherlocks body and be held by the man behind him.

“You already do” John replied, bringing his hands up to clutch Sherlocks arm. And it was the truth. John was, for the most part, calmer and more at piece with himself when Sherlock was with him. Sherlock kept him distracted in one way or another keeping him from thinking about the things he had done. He kept the nightmares at bay. He kept him sane. Well, almost sane. As sane as one could be whilst living with a man who though the shower was a perfectly acceptable place to observe the rate of maceration on a dead shaved badger. ( _Why he wanted this information was beyond John, but Sherlock had promised to clean it up, and had in his own fashion.  The bill to get the drain unclogged and the look on the plumbers face after he showed John the amount of short, wiry, black and white hairs that he had sucked up told John that he should have cleaned the mess up himself._ )

“Then how do I make it better?” was the response Sherlock gave and John could hear the worried frown that he knew was on the other mans face.

Before John could even think about what he was saying the words were dancing across his tongue and out of his mouth. “Just promise me you won’t leave again.”

One of Sherlocks arms moved from around his waist and embraced his chest as both arms tightened to a point that was close to suffocating. John felt the others face push against his neck, where it met his shoulder, the following words barely muttered.

“There is nothing in this world that could ever make me walk away from you again, John Watson. Never again. I promise.”

John remembered Sherlock promising the same thing in the hospital but this was more than just words uttered in an intense moment. This was honesty at it’s rawest and John couldn’t stop the tears that were welling in his eyes from tipping over.

“Because” he continued, “I couldn’t go on again if you left. I barely managed the last time.” John’s voice was shaky as he voiced the demons he had battled for the first time. “So many night I thought about ending it. So many nights I almost did. If Mycroft hadn’t….”

He didn’t get any further as Sherlocks hands moved to his shoulders and spun him around so Sherlock was now in front of him, glaring down at him with such an anger that John had never seen in the man before. Sherlocks hands came up and grasped, none too lightly, at the sides of Johns head and forced him to look up at Sherlock.

“No” he spat. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to think that. You, John Watson, are too good to leave this world. You have to go on, because if you don’t go on I cant go on. You keep me right, John.” Tears were now in Sherlocks eyes as well, all be it, still unshed, as he continued. “It was you, John, you kept me safe, in more ways than you can possibly know. It was the thought of coming home, _to you_ , that kept me going.

“When I was in Serbia, when….they had me, they beat and whipped me and cut me and burnt me, trying to get information from me. I knew once they had it they would kill me, so I didn’t talk” the tears in Sherlock’s eyes were now falling slowly along his cheeks and his voice quivered as he recounted his time in captivity.

“I went into my head, into my mind palace, and I found you. And although I couldn’t stop the screams and cries of pain I could stop talking because _you_ were there. You held my hand and told me that everything was going to be okay. You kept me sane, John. You kept me alive.”

John couldn’t have stopped himself even if he had wanted to, and as Sherlock uttered those last four words he threw his arms around the detective and pulled their bodies together, pressing his face to Sherlocks chest, holding him as they both silently cried for what they had done, for what had been done to them and for what they had gone through. They cried for things they had missed, for things unsaid and they cried for what they could now have.

“Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done” Sherlock said, his voice cracked and rough. “You say that you couldn’t go on if I left, well I couldn’t go on either, John. I couldn’t leave you any more than I could rip my own beating heart out of my chest. I love you John Watson and I promise that I will never, _ever_ , leave you again.”

They stayed like that, silent and embraced tightly in each others arms, for an unknown amount of time but when they pulled apart, cheeks dried, but tear stained, eyes still puffy and voices still a little shaky, the sun had completely set outside and their dinner had gone stone cold in the styrofoam containers on the table.

~o~

“I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed” John announced a few hours later. Cold Greek food had been consumed and an episode of Midsomer Murders had been watched, not that John had been completely focused on it. He had been paying more attention to the way Sherlocks hair felt as it slid between and wrapped around his fingers as Sherlock laid with his head in John’s lap, tapping out various text messages while deducing who had committed the murders and why in the small county of Midsomer. John had tried not to giggle as he grumbled about the Causton CID being just as hopeless as the members of London’s MET, but couldn’t hold it in when there was a minor character that looked like Anderson and Sherlock had practically exploded.

“God, he is even just as hopeless as Anderson” Sherlock had yelled at the telly, but had calmed down as John’s giggles had subsided.

But it had been a long day and John was tired, despite it only being just after nine o’clock.

Slowly Sherlock sat up and then stood, holding his hand out to John, who accepted it and let Sherlock pull him up from the couch. Sherlock wasted no time pulling John into an embrace, kissing the top of his head.

“Sleep in my bed tonight.” The words were barely whispered against the top of Johns head but he heard them, clear as day. John’s brain started arguing with itself, warring between the pros and cons of actually sharing a bed with Sherlock right now while their emotions were running high. “Just to sleep” Sherlock reassured. “I just want to be close to you, that’s all.”

John closed his eyes against the feeling of Sherlock nuzzling his cheek against his head. “Let me go and get my pyjamas” he said and after a few seconds Sherlock finally relented his hold on John.

Silently the two parted, each going their own way. Sherlock towards his room, John towards his own, only this time it would only be briefly.

Up in his room John changed into his pyjamas and made his way back downstairs. He stopped into the bathroom, using the toilet and brushing his teeth before making his way into Sherlocks room. Sherlock was just pulling on his pyjama top as John entered. For a moment there was nothing. The two just looked at each other. It wasn’t awkward or strange, it was just the two of them acknowledging that the final barrier had finally been pulled down and now there was nothing stopping them from being Sherlock & John in every sense. There was nothing holding them back anymore.

“Do you have a side?” John asked, breaking the silence that seemed to have frozen the two of them on the spot and looking towards the large bed.

Sherlock shrugged. “Normally the middle” and his hand made a gesture towards the bed that indicated that he took up a good 90% of the mattress. John didn’t find that hard to believe at all. Without another word, while thinking about how he was going to share a bed with a potentially large humanoid starfish, John made his way around the bed and settled himself onto the left side of the bed.

As he settled under the blankets he felt the other side of the mattress dip down as Sherlock situated himself into bed as well. Within seconds there was a click and the room was plunged into a darkness, the only light the faint glow from street lights outside, illuminating the face of the man next to him.

Tentatively, Sherlock, who was laying on his side, shuffled closer towards John but stopped with a good four inches between them. John rolled from his back onto his side, facing Sherlock, and reduced that gap to two inches. His hand reached out and found Sherlocks and that’s how he stayed until he fell asleep.

~o~

Johns eyes snapped open.

It was dark, this wasn’t his room and there was a weight on his shoulder that hadn’t been there when he fell asleep, but it wasn’t all that that had woken him up.

No. That had been the hair biting fish.

_He had been floating in the clearest, bluest ocean, the warm sun beating down on him from above. A small school of tiny white fish were swimming around him. Slowly they got closer and closer. At first they swam next to him, their little fins brushing up against his side, tickling his skin, then they leapt out of the water and over his shoulder to then swim up along his neck and cheek. The feeling, not at all unpleasant, had sent a little shiver down his spine. The small fish then swam up around his head. Suddenly they started biting onto his hair and tugging._

That is what had woken him up. His dream. It hadn’t been a nightmare, just…odd.

John blinked into the darkness and his surroundings quickly became familiar. He was in Sherlocks room, in Sherlocks bed. Sometime during the night he had rolled back onto his back and the weight on his shoulder was in actual fact Sherlocks head.

John winced as there was another tug at his hair. His first thought flew back to the little white fish but was quickly replaced by the realisation that Sherlock was trying to curl his fingers in John’s hair. Apparently it was this that had woken John up.

John tipped his head to the side to move it out of Sherlocks reach but the long fingers follow the movement, gripping the short hair to stop it from escaping again.

“Sherlock…” John mumbled, trying to move his head away again, still to no avail, as the fingers curled in, trying to find more purchase in the short strands, and tugged again. “Sherlock” John tried again, this time a bit louder. The grip loosened and Sherlock let out a muffled response followed by a snuffle as he buried his face further into John’s chest. It was then that John realised that the man next to him was actually still asleep.

John closed his eyes again and tried to go back to sleep but was prevented by doing so by another tug at his hair. His eyes snapping open again, John angled his head so he could look down at Sherlock. “Sherlock” John rumbled, a bit louder than before. The only answer was the increased pressure of Sherlocks hand against John’s head.

“Sherlock” John said, louder this time, reaching up and grabbing the younger mans wrist. This seemed to work, as Sherlocks head shot up and a slurred “What….I didn’t…it won’t last, I swear” left his mouth.

In the dim light John could see the detective, (obviously trying to justify something his dream self shouldn’t have done, more than likely to a dream John), blinking the sleep from his eyes as he registered his surroundings. Finally he looked at the hand wrapped around his wrist and then down at John’s face.

“John?”

“You were pulling my hair.”

Sherlock looked from John to his hand and back to John. His fingers flexed and then curled around so the sat flat against John’s skull, the firm pressure soothing against the tingling sensation from having his hair pulled moments ago.

“You’re still in my bed” Sherlock announced slowly, as if he were unsure if he was awake or still dreaming.

“Yes, I am” John answered, his hand uncurling from Sherlock’s wrist to gently travel up and then back down his arm again.

“Good” was Sherlocks response before he lay back down, on his side, next to John, his chin resting on the top of John’s shoulder.

John rolled onto his side and shuffled as close to Sherlock as he could get, taking the larger hands in both of his own smaller ones.

Sherlock threaded his fingers through Johns and leaned forward to place their lips together.

What started of as a slow, chaste press of lips against lips, slowly turned into something more heated. John’s tongue gently probed against Sherlocks lips and he opened his mouth granting access to the doctors tongue. John shuffled closer, eliminating even more space between them as his tongue entwined itself with Sherlocks, their breath becoming faster and shorter. Sherlocks right hand untangled itself from Johns and moved to his hip where it slowly traveled around to his lower back and pulled Johns smaller frame close against his. John groaned as their bodies connected, arching further into the touch. Sherlock took this as an invitation to push John onto his back again and climb over the doctor, straddling his hips with his own thighs.

John grabbed Sherlocks shirt and yanked him down to resume the kiss that had been broken while they changed positions. Before long John’s hands were under Sherlocks shirt, running over his abdomen and chest. Sherlock mimicked his movements, running his own hands under John’s shirt.

“Off” he murmured tugging at John’s top and John was only too happy to oblige. Sitting up he quickly pulled the thin cotton over his head and was pleased to see Sherlock doing the same with his own top. Quickly, the both of them were naked from the waist up and judging by the protrusion currently pushing up against John’s belly it was apparent that it was effecting Sherlock just as much as it was effecting him.

John’s attention was drawn away from the evident erections that both of them were sporting to the feel of warm fingers on his shoulder, tracing over the jagged lines of his scar. The star burst shaped further marred by hurried surgical procedures and infection took up most of his left shoulder. The tips of Sherlocks fingers tracing over the ridges and dipping into the valleys of the puckered flesh could hardly be felt but felt enough to leave an unusual tingling in the aftermath of their touch.

Very few people, other than himself or his doctors, had touched the damaged flesh. One girlfriend had been mildly intrigued by it, while another had been so disturbed that she requested he leave his top on at all times. Everyone else just ignored its existence. This was the first time that someone had paid any detailed attention to it and he found it somewhat arousing.

Eventually Sherlocks fingers stopped their cataloguing of his shoulder and his hands pushed on both of John’s shoulders until John was flat on his back again. It was then that Sherlocks mouth made its way to Johns again slowly moving along his jaw and down his neck. Johns hands made their way up to Sherlocks shoulders where they slid over on to his back. His hands stopped moving as they felt raised flesh, similar to that on his own shoulder. Scattered lines ridging down his back.

John felt his erection start flagging as a conversation he had had with Mycroft replayed itself in his mind.

_“There has been a change of plans. You are now needed in Odžaci.”_

_“Who is the target?”_

_“Anyone you see who is not one of our men.”_

_“Mycroft?”_

_“The mole has been captured and is currently being held in a secluded bunker. I am going in to get him. You need to make sure that there is no-one to stop me from entering or exiting with the mole.”_

_“You don’t do leg work, Mycroft. What’s so special about this one?”_

_“You are not getting paid to ask questions Doctor Watson. Just make sure you do your job. We can’t have any surprises. The mole will be in no condition to run once I get him out of the bunker.”_

_John didn’t need Mycroft to tell him why the mole would be in no condition to run. After all, the Serbian they had taken down not even a week ago had been quite fond of torture. John didn’t need to be a genius to know that this was related._

He was pulled out of his flashback by a low rumbled “Johhhn” followed by a small, sharp pain that sent a little electric spark across his chest. “Pay attention” Sherlock grumbled against his skin and all thoughts of their time away left him as sherlocks teeth clamped around his nipple again and he could feel his cock twitching as the other mans tongue laved over the sensitive little nub as long fingers pinched and rolled its partner. John’s hands moved from Sherlocks back to his head as he arched towards the mouth that was the source of the his pleasure. John moaned as Sherlock pulled his mouth away but his hands moved to his hips and he tugged at the waist band of Johns pyjamas and John wasted no time lifting his hips and pushing the pyjamas and his pants down. With a bit of shuffling the clothing got pushed past Sherlocks form, sitting on his thighs, and kicked off of the ends of his legs, to be lost in the tangle of sheets at the bottom of the bed.

Nudging Johns legs apart Sherlock resettled himself between his knees and slowly dragged his eyes down Johns body, running his hands down Johns thighs then slowly moving them back up. John bit his bottom lip in frustration as Sherlocks hands stopped on his hips, fingers angled in to frame his now very hard, very interested cock, but not touching it.

“John” came the husky whisper, the warm breath tickling his pubic hair, where Sherlock had leaned forward, bringing his mouth closer to John’s erection. It was all John could do not to thrust up, hoping that Sherlock got the hint. Instead he closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock to do whatever it was that Sherlock was going to do and hoped it ended in some form of friction against his penis.

John didn’t have to wait long before he felt the wet warmth of Sherlocks tongue licking a path from the base of his cock to the tip where he continued to trace the tip of his tongue around the corona, before sucking the entire head into his mouth, sending a shudder that rolled through Johns entire body.

“Oh, god, Sherlock” John moaned as he stopped himself from thrusting further into the warm heat of Sherlocks mouth. His grip in Sherlocks curls tightened but Sherlock didn’t seem to care. In fact it seemed to spur him on, his lips moving over John faster, gradually taking more and more of him into his mouth.

John couldn’t keep still. It was too much, but not enough. Sherlock was applying just enough speed and pressure with his suction and tongue to leave John writhing but not enough for him to get off.

“ _Sherlock_ ” he panted but this only caused Sherlock to slow down before he completely pulled off with an obscene, wet sounding _Pop_!

Before John could protest Sherlock had moved up the bed and had latched his mouth to Johns again, pushing his tongue into the smaller mans mouth. John didn’t resist and happily welcomed the protrusion into his mouth, the faint taste of himself tainting his taste buds. Sherlock thrust his still clothed hips against Johns, and John let out as small gasp at the feel of worn silk rubbing up against him.

“Off” he clamoured trying to push the material off of Sherlocks slim hips. With some swift manoeuvring Sherlock had his pants off and was kneeling between John’s legs, leaning over him with his elbows either side of Johns shoulders.

John gently angled his hips up and thrust, gently, finally bringing them together with no clothing, no barriers, to separate them. The feeling of Sherlocks erection brushing up against his sent a charge of what felt like pure electricity up his spine firing off tiny sparks of pleasure along the way, resulting in a deep gasp from the good doctor. Sherlock, in return, let out a low moan at the contact, lowering his hips down so John didn’t have to arch so much to reach him, where he continued to grind his hips agains Johns, sliding his own hard cock against Johns with every thrust.

John reached up and pulled Sherlock down into a deep kiss that was broken every now and then by grunts and moans, hisses of pleasure words of pure rapture, especially when Sherlock brought his hands between their bodies and circled his long fingers around both of their cocks, applying the perfect amount of pressure for John to feel every crease, bump and twitch as his thrust into the circle of Sherlock’s hand, sliding his cock agains the other, both of them coated now in enough sweat and pre-come to allow for easy movement.

“ _Oh, John_ ” Sherlock moaned as he thrust again, his moans getting louder with each thrust that followed.

Apparently Sherlock treated sex like he treated most things. With the need to vocalise about it and John couldn’t say that he minded one bit as Sherlock let him know just how good it felt with a series of moans and gasps and broken sentences. John revelled in every sound that the other man made, the smooth, deep baritone resonating in his ears, mingling with his other senses to heighten the overall feeling that was currently pulsating through his body. The feeling that made him feel hot and tingly, light headed and so bloody good.

“ _John_ ” he panted as his hand slicked over their joined erections “ _God_ , John….so good against me, _I_ …”

John didn’t find out what Sherlock was. Instead he grabbed Sherlocks arse with his hands and lifted his head up to capture Sherlocks mouth with his own as the man above him started thrusting harder. This caused John to speed up in order to catch up with Sherlock which then resulted in John finally tipping over the edge. As his orgasm surged through his body he was vaguely aware of pulling Sherlocks body as close to his as possible as he rutted into the hand that circled their cocks, needing to feel closer as his semen spurted between them, smearing up between both of their bellies.

Just as John had emptied himself between their bodies Sherlock’s body stiffened against his and he bellowed out a rather loud “Oh, _god_ , JOHN” before adding to the mess with his own ejaculate, taking in deep shuddering breaths before dropping limply onto Johns chest.

Lazily, John brought his arms up to wrap around the detective, holding him in place, not wanting to part from him.

“Never again, John” he quietly panted against John’s chest and John knew what he was saying. He was saying that he would never leave John alone again. He would never be the cause for John to thinking about taking his own life. He would never stop loving John.

“I love you too, Sherlock. Always.” He mumbled quietly in reply and, despite the heavy weight of Sherlock’s body on his own and the feeling of their mixed semen between them, the two men managed to fall into peaceful slumber where there dreams did not leave them shaking and sweating in fear, yelling out for help or forgiveness. The dreams that visited the two of them were dreams of companionship and futures together. They were the fortunate dreams of those who are clearly loved.

~o~

It was Sherlocks phone that woke them up later that morning. John looked to the clock to see that they had slept nearly half the day away as Sherlock read the message.

“Lestrade?” John asked, stretching his arms over his head trying to regain the feeling that had been lost in his right arm as a result of having a consulting detective sleep on it for the past seven and a half hours.

“No, Molly. She has an enteric duplication cyst for me.”

“Charming” John replied sitting up and stretching his back. He winced as it popped twice. As he rolled his neck he felt the mattress dip behind him and before long there was a body kneeling behind his and long arms wrapping around his chest.

“It’s of the colon. Do you know how rare they are, John? They account for less than eighteen percent of all gastrointestinal duplications” Sherlock rumbled as he nipped at the skin below John’s ear with his lips.

“Mmm, not really the sort of morning after talk I was expecting” John replied, turning his head so he could seek out those lips with his own. They didn’t take long to find. “At least have a shower with me before you turn me aside in favour of colonic abnormalities.”

“I suppose I can manage that” Sherlock answered followed by a bite to John’s lower lip and the two fell into a heated kiss which saw Sherlock slide around so he was straddling John’s lap.

“If we keep this up, we will never make it to the shower and you will never get your cyst. Come on” and and he gave Sherlock a small push, encouraging him to remove himself from Johns lap. “Let’s get moving.”

With a groan Sherlock removed himself from on top of John and lead the way to the bathroom where he quickly returned to his previous enterprises.

Twenty minutes later a happily satiated John made his way up to his bedroom to get dressed. When he came back down Sherlock was also completely dressed and pulling on his scarf.

“You sure you won’t join me?” Sherlock asked, snagging John by the wrist as he walked past on his way to the kitchen.

John allowed himself to be pulled against the detective as a long arm snaked around his waist. “Positive” he murmured as Sherlock pressed his lips agains John’s. “Enteric cysts aren’t really my thing.”

Sherlock kissed him, hard but chaste, one more time before letting him go. “I won’t be long” he said as he stepped away and pulled his coat off the hook and then he was turning away and heading out the door.

“Grab something for lunch on your way back” John called as he heard Sherlock start to descend the stairs. Their was no answer from Sherlock but he did hear Mrs Hudson greeting him as she passed him on the stairs. She sounded awfully chirpy this morning.

“John, dear. This was pushed through the mail box. I found it earlier this morning when I went to get the paper. I didn’t want to bring it up straight away in case you were, you know… _asleep_ ” she said as she entered the flat. The small grin and the way she said ‘ _asleep_ ’ indicated to John that she had heard everything that he and Sherlock had gotten up to last night and as she had been pushing for them to be in a relationship from day one, John could only assume that this was also the reason for her exceptionally cheery mood.

Not particularly feeling in the mood to discuss his newly developed sex life, (or any stage of his sex life for that matter), with his landlady he turned his attention to the letter that was in her hand instead.

Mrs Hudson handed over the standard sized envelope with the words _Dr. J H Watson_ scrawled across the front in black ink. There were no other markings on the envelope.

“I didn’t want to leave it too late to give it to you incase it was important.”

“Thanks Mrs Hudson” John said turning the envelope over in his hands.

“I must go. I’ve got scones in the oven. I don’t want them to burn. I will bring some up later.”

“Yeah, thanks, that’d be great” John replied distractedly as he hooked his thumb into the slit at the top corner and tore open the envelope. Who would be sending him unmarked mail? Everyone he knew texted or called. He suddenly had a bad feeling about what he was going to find inside this envelope.

The sound of Mrs Hudson farewelling him barely registered as he pulled the single slip of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.

John wasn’t even half way through reading the letter before he pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through his contacts, hitting _RING_ on the name he needed.

Before the phone had a chance to perform one full ring Mycroft Holmes’ voice sounded from the other end.

“Doctor Watson. To what do I owe this pleasure.”

John looked down to the paper in his hands. “We have got a big problem.”

~o~

_Dear John,_

_I am sending this letter in order of congratulations. It seems that you and the young Mister Holmes have finally consummated your relationship. I must say, it’s about time too. I was starting to think you’d never get past a heated snog on the couch._

_When I viewed the footage first thing this morning I couldn’t believe my eyes, well ears. (Seems you prefer it with the lights out, and I must say, that was a very touching speech you gave earlier in the evening to get him in the mood.) It was like Christmas had come all at once. Not that I get off on watching you two go at it like a couple of jack rabbits, far from it. No, what I am excited about is now that you and Sherlock are finally in an actual relationship it is going to be so much more entertaining when I rip you both apart. I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see what I am going to do to him.  Satisfying it will be, I am positive._

_Don’t worry too much, though. You still have a bit more time to break in and enjoy the new-found advancements in your relationship. I am not quite ready for him yet, but soon._

_I look forward to catching you again, Johnny._

_Your friend,_

 

_Sebastian Moran_

 

John didn’t need to see the letter that Mycroft was currently scanning. He had read it over and over again, until every word, every full stop, every crease in the paper, had been memorised, until Mycroft had arrived with his surveillance team. That said team was currently sweeping the flat for any form of surveillance that had not been personally authorised by Mycroft himself.

“And you say the envelope was completely unmarked” Mycroft said as he refolded the letter, careful to follow the folds that were already there.

“Apart from my name, yeah. See for yourself” John answered handing over the envelope in question.

Mycroft took it but didn’t look at it. Instead he just slid the letter back inside and handed it to Anthea. With unspoken orders she left, the letter in one hand, mobile phone in the other.

John was about to ask what Mycroft was going to do with the letter when their attention was pulled towards a big red headed boulder of a man. “Sir, it seems we have located all of the devices” Red Block said to Mycroft and indicated that they should follow him into the kitchen. What John found in there did not make him feel at all at ease.

There, on a piece of kitchen table that was not covered in science equipment or mould samples was a small pile of no less than 20 small cameras and microphones.

“And these were….” John couldn’t finish the sentence.

“All over the apartment, yes sir” Red Block finished for him.

“And you are certain that this is all of them?” Mycroft asked, looking over the small collection.

“Yes, sir. We have tripled checked and Mason & Wiles are doing one final sweep. We are certain this is all of them.”

“Thank you Sellers.” With that Red Block, Sellers, turned and left Mycroft and John to stare at the table together, alone.

“I thought you said the flat was under heavy security” John said through clenched teeth. E _ight points of surveillance, more if needed._ That is what he had told him and Sherlock on the day they got back.

“It is” was Mycroft’s simple reply.

“Then _how_ did he get in here to plant…” John picked up a cracked camera, no bigger than his thumb nail “…all of these.”

Slowly Mycroft breathed in and then out again, not once tearing his gaze away from the tiny devices. “That is a good question Doctor Watson, and one I intend to find the answer to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Annnd we get back into the story again. Things are heating up for our boys in more ways than one!


	15. 14 - Threatening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds out about the letter sent to John, and although he promises not to go after Moran, he doesn't promise not to continue investigations. Unfortunately things don't go to plan and Sherlock finds out the hard way that he had Moran figured out all wrong.

Sherlocks cab pulled up at the kerb just as a familiar black car pulled away. With a muttered curse at his brother, Sherlock pushed some notes at the cabbie and exited the vehicle, lunch in one hand, cyst in the other.

What could his brother possibly want? He was here less than 48 hours ago and there was obviously no development with Moran or else he would have rung. At the very least he would have waited for Sherlock to arrive home before leaving. Therefore he was here for the soul purpose of sticking his big nose into Sherlocks business, as was his usual M.O.D.

Opening the front door and then closing it, both with a little bit too much force than was necessary, Sherlock headed up to the flat, taking the stairs two at a time.

“What did he want?” Sherlock almost sneered as he entered the living room.

“What, who?” John’s voice sounded from the kitchen.

“Mycroft, who else. I just saw him drive away. What exactly was his excuse for sticking his nose in this time?” Sherlock made his way into the kitchen, his disgruntled frown deepening as he watched John scrub at the table that was now, for some reason unfathomable to Sherlock, free of all science equipment and experiments.

“Nothing. It…was nothing. You can stop frowning like that now.”

Sherlock frowned deeper and directed a level glare at John.

“Seriously, Sherlock. There was a small problem, a bit of a misunderstanding, but it is sorted now. You really don’t need to worry” John assured him just a bit too lightly.

Slowly Sherlock placed the bags on the now very clear and very clean table, not once taking his narrowed eyes off of John.

Straight back, shoulders tense, licked his lips four times throughout the obvious lie, is scratching at something on the table with his thumb nail trying to look busy, avoiding eye contact, bottom lip is red and puffy, (hopefully) not from kissing Mycroft, but rather from chewing on it, therefore nerves.

What would John have to be nervous about. What would Mycroft tell John, that he wouldn’t tell Sherlock.

“John” he started off slowly. “I know you know that I know you are lying, and you know that I will eventually find out, so why don’t you save us both the hassle and just tell me now.”

John finally looked up to Sherlock and there was that familiar look of resignation in his eyes. Sherlock wanted to smirk, like he usually did when John broke and bowed down to his quite often ridiculous requests and demands, but already Sherlock could tell that this was not a smirking moment. Despite John’s words, this was a rather serious matter and unless John had decided that last night was an accident (which Sherlock highly doubted after their repeat performance in the shower) then this had to do with Moran.

With a shaky sigh John spoke. “While you were gone I received a correspondence from Moran.”

“And…”

“It appears that he has been watching us and wanted to congratulate us.”

“What do you meant, _congratulate us_?”

“On…the….development in our…..” John swallowed, hard, rather than finish the sentence, but Sherlock didn’t need to hear what he didn’t say. He knew. Moran had, somehow, been watching them.

Sherlock didn’t know what made him angrier. The fact that their privacy had been violated by one of the most depraved men on the planet, the fact that somewhere along the line Mycrofts men had failed or the fact that John had tried to lie to him about it. Sherlock decided to go with the last one because the subject of that anger was before him, giving him something to lash out on.

“And when, exactly, were you going to let me in on this bit of information” he hissed in John’s direction.

“Sherlock, please, I….”

“What, thought that you and Mycroft could sort this out on your own?”

“No, Sherlock, will you just calm down…”

“Calm down!” Sherlock wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He lowered his voice and, although it shook, it still carried the sharp edges that were often evident when Sherlock was not happy. “You want me to _calm down_. John, you received information, directly from the man we are hunting, the man who is hunting _us_ and then, not only did you try to hide it, but you then tried to lie about it.

“This man was in our home, watching us, and you didn’t think it was imperative that I know about this, yet you felt the need to consult _Mycroft_ about it. So tell me John, why in the hell should I _calm down_?”

With another sigh, and a pinch to the bridge of his nose John looked back up at Sherlock and Sherlock suddenly felt guilty. John didn’t look angry, or upset, or anything really. He looked tired. “You’re right” he said and Sherlock felt some of the tension leave his body as the urge to go over and pull this man into his arms became almost unbearable. But he stayed where he was. He let John say his piece.

“I should have told you, I should have called you straight away. But, my first thought after I realised that he was watching us was to stop him from watching us and I knew that Mycroft would find out _how_ it was being done.

“Once I had called him I was going to call you, but, I don’t know. I didn’t want you to worry. You always worry about me, and we had had a good morning. I guess, I didn’t want to ruin it. You were so happy and it has been too long since either of us have been able to be just that. I wanted at least one of us to be able to keep it, even if it was just for a day.”

Sherlock gave into the urge and in four long strides around the table he was in front of John, pulling him close to his body and wrapping his arms around him.

“Tell me” Sherlock said, but it lacked its usual demanding tone.

Slowly John recited the letter, word for word and then filled him in about Mycrofts visit and what exactly had been found in their apartment.

“Visual and Audio?”Sherlock asked noting that not once throughout John’s speech had his embrace loosened any.

There was a tentative nod from the smaller man.

“And where exactly were they found?”

John gave a small shrug which was sort of impeded by Sherlocks arms around his shoulders. “I didn’t ask. Red Bl…Sellers just said that they had been all over the flat, but I think it’s safe to assume, going by the letter, that there was no room left spare.”

Sherlock frowned. Why send the letter to John? It was clear that it was Sherlock that he wanted so why target John for this piece of communication? Why lay low for so long and only come out to taunt John?

“What are you thinking?” John asked.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked, stopping his thoughts and taking in John’s words. "Oh, nothing, just….thinking.”

This time it was John’s turn to be angry. “So I have to tell you everything, but you can keep stuff to yourself” and he tried to push away from Sherlock, but Sherlock just held him tighter. “That’s not how relationships work, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at John’s words. He was right. “I don’t understand _why_ he sent this letter to you. If it is me that he wants then why….?”

There was silence in the flat but that just made the sound of John’s thinking all the louder.

“I know him” he finally said.

“Moran?” This was news to Sherlock. How was it that he didn’t know this already.

“I met him, during my first tour in Afghanistan.”

“And, again, you didn’t think I should know this?” The anger was starting to well up deep in his gut again. What else hadn’t John and Mycroft told him. There was too much that he didn’t know.

“Why don’t we sit down” John sighed, finally pulling away from Sherlock, his hand lazily pointing to the couch.

Sherlock’s initial reaction was to refuse, just to be petty, but if he wanted to find out then sitting down was obviously the quickest way to get the information he was lacking.

Once they were both seated John started his story.

“We never served together, me and Moran. I only met him twice. The first time was just in passing. His team moved through our zone and stopped over night. He was the sort of guy that people liked. Good looking, funny, easy to get along with.”

“But you didn’t like him.” It wasn’t a question.

“He was too good to be true. His daddy was a decorated war hero, retired by then. He moved through the ranks quickly, but it was clear that he had ‘help’ along the way. He wasn’t overly bright and lacked the certain type of discipline that natural leaders have. But that wasn’t why I didn’t like him. You get a lot of wankers in the army who move up ranks because they know someone who knows someone. There’s nothing you can do about it, you just learn to deal with it.

“I didn’t like him because, despite the good guy smile and the easy attitude, there was something about him. Something _wrong_ with him.”

John stopped and slowly inhaled as he thought about his next words.

“You know how some animals can sense an illness in one of their pack?  It was like that. It was like there was a darkness about him. Like there was something malignant growing inside him that twisted and distorted anything good. He made me uneasy. I just got this feeling, this creeping down my spine, whenever he was around, but I could never put my finger on what was wrong with him. What ever it was, he was good at hiding it.”

During his spiel Sherlock had calmed down and had turned sideways on the couch, his back leaning against the armrest, and he had manoeuvred John between his legs and pulled him back so he was resting on Sherlocks chest. Gently his hands rubbed the tension, which seemed to be quite heavy, out of John’s shoulders. After a few moments of silence John carried on.

“The second time I met Moran, he sought me out.

“I don’t know how much of my Military history you know, what you’ve read or what Mycroft told you, but three times I was approached by the army. They needed snipers. I wasn’t interested. I was there to heal people, not take their lives. After I turned them down twice they decided to take a more _practically personal_ approach. They sent one of their own to talk to me into joining them.”

“Moran.” John nodded even though Sherlock wasn't asking.

“By that time he was no longer in command of his own team. I was never clear on exactly what it was that he was doing, but there he was. He settled in at our base for a couple of days, conveniently during some down time. We hadn’t had any wounded, well nothing serious, for almost five days. On his second day there he tracked me down, found me playing cards with one of the patients in the ward. After a bit of a chat he talked me into going out to the shooting range, which was more of a line of dead trees that we used for target practice. It wasn’t that I wanted to show off my shooting skills or prove myself to him, far from it, but I had a feeling that he wouldn’t leave me alone unless I joined him for some ‘ _one on-one bonding_ ’.

“Moran watched my every move. Again, there was that uneasy creepy feeling. I didn’t trust the man. We were out in the range for a good hour or so. He made a point of showing me up every time he had his round. I let him. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want him to see me at my best, so I held back. At first I thought he saw through my limited attempts, but then he seemed to believe that I was giving it my best go.

“Just before we were about to finish bloody Bill Murray comes along, doesn’t he.” Sherlock didn’t miss the fond way that John mentioned Bills name, and made a mental note to ask John about him at a later date.

“So, up swaggers Bill, watches me take a few shots and then, slaps me on the back and says, ' _You’re holding out Johnny Boy. We have seen you hit dead centre shot after shot, not missing a single time. Show him what you’re really made of, let ‘em know us ordinary soldiers ain’t just a bunch of pretty faces_.' A good doctor, Murray was, but he always had to show off, either for himself or on behalf of someone else.

“I don’t think I was meant to see the look that Moran shot me. He completely let his mask drop and there it was. That cold calculating look of killer with no morals, no conscience. For a brief moment I was afraid. I somehow managed to shrug it off and told him that I must be having an off day before turning and leaving, Bill happily chatting with Moran who had his _good-guy_ face back on.”

Again there was a brief moment of silence.

“I never saw Moran after that and I didn’t think about him at all, at least not for around eight months.”

“What happened?”

“People, locals, innocent civilians started dying. Not just dying. They were being killed. Single people and whole families killed, usually shot, single bullet to the head, in their homes, on the way to work or to the markets. Sometimes the women and children had been raped and then had their throats slit. Often there were signs of torture before they had been killed or evidence of mutilation post mortem. They weren’t terrorists, they were just ordinary, everyday people trying to live the best that they could in a shit world. And this person was killing them to stave off boredom.

“Originally it was only rumours, all here-say, but then, while we were on a routine sweep of a nearby village we came across an entire family, just, senselessly slaughtered. God, I had never seen anything like it. I had nightmares for months after. Sometimes I still do. This wasn’t some crazed joe-blow on a killing spree. This person knew what they were doing. This person had been trained. Moran instantly came to mind and it was a notion that I couldn’t shake. Over the next few months more people, in the communities near us, were killed and it just happened that Moran had also been in the area also. I never crossed paths with him again, but some of the other guys in camp did. They all still thought he was this fantastic guy who was the life of the party. I still only saw the man I had seen at the Shooting Range. Cold. Untrusting. Evil.

“It was two months later when rumours circulated that the person doing this was one of ours. No one knew who.  Again, it was just here-say about some evidence that had been pulled from a couple of the murders. That was when I decided that I couldn’t keep my suspicions to myself any more. I went to my commanding officer, Major Sholto, and voiced my suspicions. I thought I’d be laughed off. I had no evidence. It was just a gut feeling. He listened to me, told me he would consider my concerns and that was all I heard of it for another two months.

“It was the night after I had worked on an eleven year old girl. She had been raped, repeatedly, and sliced up. She wasn’t supposed to have survived. She was meant to have died, like her mother and two brothers, but she was a fighter. It was Morans first mistake and when she woke up from the surgery she was able to give a brief description, nothing too substantial but it must have been enough to prompt an investigation.

“A few weeks later quiet whispers were going around. Moran had been dishonourably discharged. No one knew why but there were a couple of people who had put two and two together and realised that the killings had stopped in the months after he left.”

Sherlock noticed that the tension increased in John’s shoulders the more he spoke about Moran so he increased the pressure he applied to the massage.

John didn’t seem to notice.

“I laid awake that night, after treating that little girl, and I thought of all the ways I could kill him. In the end I decided on quick and efficient. Leave no rooms for mistakes, no chance of survival. When he was dishonourably discharged, with no charges laid against him I was furious. I had worked on so many of the bodies that he destroyed, I ascertained the cause of death, I cleaned them up and made them respectable so their families could bury them with dignity, I nursed that girl back to health while I watched her grieve for a family she would never have again and that bastard walked away, scott-free, no repercussions because his daddy was some trumped up General and didn’t want to have to deal with the bad mark against his name and the fact that the only hard evidence they had was from that of a scared, traumatised little girl, who could apparently mistake one British soldier for another and that wasn't worth the bad name the army would get if it ever became public.”

It seemed John had said all that he had to say and he started to loosen up again under Sherlocks hands. After a few moments of settling silence he spoke again, but there was no anger in his words anymore.

“Mycroft knew that we had met. I assumed because he knew, you knew, _I know_ , I should never assume without all the facts, but I just figured it would have come up in one of your meetings while we were away. I didn’t feel the need to bring it up again. We all have the same objective. We all want the bastard dead.”

“We will get him” Sherlock assured with sheer determination.

John brought his hands up to Sherlocks hands, where they were still rolling the muscles in his shoulders. Sherlocks hands stopped.

“I know.”

John relaxed back against Sherlock, not saying anything, just staring across the room, his hands loosely resting on top of Sherlocks.

“Please tell me your cyst didn’t need to be refrigerated straight away.”

Sherlock looked in the direction that John was looking in. There on the kitchen table were the two bags that he had brought in with him, forgotten the second he had seen Johns face. His enteric duplication cyst in one and half a dozen steamed dim sums, plum duck and satay chicken in rice in the other.

He gave a shrug. “It’s in a cooler box” he stated.

“Still, we should probably put it in the fridge” John said, but his voice said that he would rather stay right where he was.

“Lunch will be cold.” Sherlock offered, feeling the need to say something.

“It can be reheated later. I’m not really hungry now, but that should probably go in the fridge too.”

Sherlock had concluded that the topic of refrigerating edible and non-edible products was over but then, with a sigh that spoke of hardship beyond belief, John got up from the couch and made his way into the kitchen to put said items away.

Sherlock watched him move about before getting up to follow him. He didn’t appear exhausted as such. Just…weary. The tension was causing an ache in his leg and shoulder. It was clearly evident by the way John was carrying himself. Sherlock needed to find a way to relax him.

“You should go to bed for a while” he suggested.

“I’m not tired” John replied as he binned the bag that had carried Sherlock prize home from the morgue.

“I didn’t say you had to go to sleep” Sherlock quietly rumbled in his ear.

A small but playful smile fell across John’s mouth. “Why Mr Holmes, are you trying to seduce me?” he asked, angling his head back so he could look Sherlock in the eye.

“Is it working?”

John’s reply was to walk past Sherlock and head out of the kitchen, in the general direction of the bedroom. Sherlock wasted no time following.

“At least we won’t have an audience this time.” Sherlock regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do now was remind John that their first time together had been observed by Moran, and possibly their second, but as always, John surprised him by looking to the bright side of things, as was his way.

“I’m not too sure about that. Mrs Hudson is down stairs, and I am pretty sure she heard everything last night.” Well, the slightly better side of things, at least.

“She did seem rather cheerful this morning, didn’t she” Sherlock mentioned thoughtfully, thinking back to the way she had greeted him on the stairs that morning.

“I have a feeling our landlady is somewhat of a voyeur.”

“Did I ever alert you to the YouTube videos of her dancing days?” Sherlock mentioned casually as the two of them made their way down the hallway towards the bedroom.

“I really don’t want to know” John laughed, and just like that all the tension and worries of Moran were gone.

Which was good for as soon as they entered the bedroom all of Johns focus was on slowly removing Sherlocks clothing, bit by bit. As more skin was exposed by John, Sherlock was subjected to more and more attention from Johns mouth. He kissed his neck, and nibbled along his jaw. He sucked the skin over his clavicle and dipped his tongue into Sherlocks suprasternal notch. His hands deftly undid buttons and clasps and zips and before long Sherlock was completely naked.

Johns hands slowly explored Sherlocks body, gliding over skin, rubbing and pinching, grasping and scratching. It was unusual and highly erotic, but neither man was tempted to speed the progression along. John walked around Sherlocks body looking and feeling and tasting different parts. He kissed along the scars on his back and ran his fingers through the light dusting of hair on his chest. He held the palm of his hand against Sherlocks, comparing the differences in size and shape and licked the back of his knee. That pulled a rather unexpected gasp from Sherlock so John did it to the other one. He buried his nose in the hair under Sherlocks arm and sniffed and ran his fingers behind his ears. Every touch, every sound, was a new experience it left Sherlock wanting it to never end. But eventually it did.

Eventually, John stood in front of Sherlock and, leaning up, placed a kiss on his lips. It was soft and sweet and Sherlock closed his eyes and leant into it, enjoying the feel of Johns lips against his own. Then John’s hand circled around his penis and everything changed.

In an instant things went from slow and sensual to fast and heated. The kiss deepened, tongues intwined, teeth bit at lips and moans were transferred between mouths. Sherlock rutted his hips forward, as John hadn’t yet moved his hand where it was wrapped around Sherlocks cock, which had gone from _just_ hard to _achingly_ hard in a few short moments and the need for friction was growing by the second.

Sherlocks fingers frantically scrabbled against Johns shirt and his trousers, trying to open buttons and zips at the same time.

“God…Jesus, John” Sherlock panted as he finally divested John of his final piece of clothing. “ _I need you, now_.”

John moaned into his mouth and brought his hands up to Sherlocks shoulders, gently but quickly guiding him towards the bed.

“Anything you want” he murmured between kissing and biting Sherlocks lips.

The back of Sherlocks knees hit the bed and he tumbled back, taking John with him, landing with an “ _oofff”_ as John was pulled on top of him, but it didn’t stop the smaller man from continuing his exploration of Sherlocks mouth with his own.

“You” Sherlock whispered urgently. “I want you…to penetrate me.”

John moaned, but he could feel the smile against his own mouth. “Penetrate?”

“Yes, John, penetrate.” Sherlock was getting frustrated now. “The act of inserting your penis into my…”

“Alright, alright” John laughed. “I get it. I just don’t think I have ever had it worded to me like that before.”

“Fine, fuck me, roger me, shag me, bugger me, what ever you want to call it, just do it already.”

“God you’re so hot when you talk dirty” John grinned, but before Sherlock could bite back he asked, “Please say you have lube and condoms.”

Sherlock pointed to the bedside drawer, relieved that John was finally doing something about it. As John rooted around in the drawer for their supplies, Sherlock scooted up the bed, getting comfortable before John returned with a half used bottle of lubricant and an unopened box of condoms.

Without waiting another second Sherlock grabbed the box from John’s hand and ripped it open, pulling out the first small foil packet his fingers blindly landed on. Ignoring the tail of other foil squares that followed it as he pulled it from the box, he tore open the packet making a mental note to get both John and himself tested as soon as possible thereby eradicating the need of this tedious, time wasting step.

“Jesus, slow down” John laughed, but all humour was dropped as Sherlock wrapped one hand around John’s length to steady it while the other one rolled the little latex prophylactic over the head and down the shaft.

A soft moan rumbled in Johns chest as Sherlocks fingers moved down, smoothing the rubber so it fit snug.

“Now, John” he whispered urgently.

Without any further hesitation John uncapped the lubricant and squirted some into his hand, warming it as he coated his fingers in the thick liquid. Without a word, Sherlock bent his knees up and spread his legs allowing John more access.

Sherlock pushed his hips down as he felt John’s finger gently prod his opening, trying to feel more, but John, as always, was sticking to his own schedule and the look that he threw Sherlock said that he wouldn’t be pushed into moving any faster than he wanted to.

So instead of fighting John Sherlock let his head fall back onto the pillow and let himself feel all of the things that John did to him. The soft circling of his finger against the rim of his hole, the slow, but firm push of John’s thumb against his perineum. Eventually the slow breach of John’s finger inside of him, made easier by the slick lubricant covering John’s digits, pushing in, just a bit, only to slide back out again, before pushing in a bit further than the last time. Sherlocks muscles protested at first, not used to the intrusion, but were soon clenching around him, inviting him in further. His hips thrust, slightly, in time with Johns probing finger and then there was two.

Sherlock whimpered as the slight, stretching burn turned into something more wanton and gratifying. Sherlocks minute thrusts started to pick up speed, but John laid his free hand on Sherlock’s hip, stilling him, then with a mischievous grin Sherlock felt Johns fingers twitch inside him and Sherlock was reminded again of the benefits of John being a man who had trained in all aspects of the human anatomy.

Fire. He was on fire. Beautiful, blissful fire. And all he could do was whimper and gasp as John slowly stroked his prostate over and over again until Sherlock was a sweating, writhing mess, unable to form a coherent sentence beyond, “John…. _nnnhng_ …please, god…. _huhhhhh_.”

Pulling his fingers out half way, John poured out some more lubricant, making sure to squeeze some into Sherlock’s stretched hole before replacing his fingers with a third addition.

“God, Sherlock” John rasped. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

Sherlock just groaned, taking John’s word for it, as he tried to push down onto Johns fingers, taking in as much as he could, as John twisted and scissored his fingers apart, stretching Sherlock even further.

“John” Sherlock panted, feeling like he was going to burst if John didn’t get a move on. “Now, I want…need you…now.” Sherlocks sentence was broken by heavy pants and soft groans as John’s fingers made one more swipe over his prostate before pulling out completely.

Despite his previous request (begging) Sherlock whimpered as he suddenly felt the loss of John’s touch, aching to be full again, but his disappointment didn’t last long as he felt the head of John’s rubber and lubricated coated cock nudge against his opening.

“Yes, Johnnnn” he pleaded, pushing down, coaxing John to hurry up, and John didn’t disappoint. With one swift, but gentle move he pushed in, all the way, until he was fully seated inside Sherlocks arse.

Sherlock gasped at the feeling of being so, _so_ , full. Months, _years_ of fantasy didn’t compare to this and they had barely started yet.

For a brief moment the two of them laid there, embracing, savouring the moment, committing it to memory and then John’s hips rolled, just slowly, then again and again. Faster and harder, picking up pace. He braced himself with his hands on either side of Sherlocks shoulders and started thrusting into him at a fast and frantic pace, the gentle touches of earlier now a distant memory. And Sherlock was loving every second of it.

His hips rolled up to meet Johns, the sound of their skin hitting each other, their gasps and heavy breaths, the distinct sound of John sliding out of Sherlock and thrusting back in.

Sherlock reached up and pulled John’s mouth down to his own, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting everything he could. A moan passed from his lips to Johns and he bit down on John’s lip as his back arched up, pushing himself further down onto John’s cock.

“ _Uhhhng_ , there” he gasped as John hit his prostate. A few thrusts later and he hit again.

“Faster” Sherlock panted. “God, John, so…. _oh, god. Again._ ”

And John did. He pounded into Sherlock harder and faster, hitting his prostate every few thrusts until Sherlock felt a wave of pleasure roll through his body, from the base of his spine and spreading out, crashing, sending tiny, intense smaller waves through his body as he came with a strangled, somewhat high-pitched cry of " _Oh! Johnnnnnn_.”

He was barely aware of the fact that John was still thrusting into him, more frantic before suddenly becoming rigid, his head thrown back and an undecipherable cry of something leaving his mouth as he thrust once, twice, three more times, before stilling again and then inelegantly flopping down on the mattress next to an equally exhausted Sherlock.

Clumsily, Sherlock reached over and grabbed a handful of tissues from the side table and cleaned himself off as John removed and tied the condom, throwing it towards the bin. Sherlock couldn’t be arsed seeing if it hit its mark and threw the tissues in the same general direction.

“You came without being touched” John mumbled as he wrapped himself around Sherlocks body, resting his head on his shoulder.  Sherlock instantly brought his hand up and started running his fingers through Johns short hair.

“I did” Sherlock answered lazily as the realisation that not once, since they got on the bed, had his penis been touched, sunk in. “That’s not happened before.”

“Your welcome” came John’s muffled voice as he nuzzled further into Sherlocks shoulder, inhaling deeply. It vaguely occurred to Sherlock that John may have something of an olfactive fixation and he tried to make a mental note to explore that more at a later date. When he wasn’t so blissed out maybe.

Together they laid there, just enjoying the moment of being with each other while their hormones settled into a more sane state. Sherlock listened as John’s breathing slowed down, and he almost thought he was asleep when John spoke.

“God, please promise me that you won’t go after him” John mumbled, breaking the tranquil silence around them.

“Hmmm?” Sherlocks brain was still foggy from what had been a rather fantastic orgasm, as he pleasantly took note of how it was going to be a bit uncomfortable to sit for the next day or so.

“Moran” John sighed. “Please promise me that you will not run off on your own trying to find him.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. If his mind hadn’t been otherwise currently (blissfully) compromised that is exactly what he would have be thinking about. It still threw him sometimes that John knew him so well.

“I know what you’re like Sherlock, but for once, just let Mycrofts men handle this, yeah. Let us just focus on us. Let us build what we have and promise me that you won’t go after him on your own.”

Sherlock pulled John in closer to him and placed a kiss on the top of his head. He had never made so many (serious) promises in his life as he had in the past two days, but it was for John, so therefore it was acceptable. “I promise John. Together or not at all.” And he meant it. He would not go without John, or at least adequate back up, which would be a more viable option as if Sherlock could help it he wanted to keep as much distance between John and Moran as possible.

This answer seemed to appease John greatly as Sherlock felt the smaller man relax into his arms. They laid there together like that until Sherlock could hear the deep, steady breathing that indicated John was asleep. And he would have been content staying like that until John woke, but the sound of familiar footsteps, accompanied by the occasional tap on the stairs leading up to their flat were going to prevent that from happening.

Carefully Sherlock extracted himself from under John and removed himself from the bed without waking him. Quietly he slipped on his dressing gown and made his way out of the bedroom, closing the door and going out to greet his brother, where he had no doubt invited himself in and made himself comfortable on one of the armchairs. Depending on how petty he felt would determine whether or not he would sit in Sherlocks chair.

It told Sherlock a lot that he was not in fact sitting in any chair, but was standing at the window, looking down at the street below.

~o~

Sherlock watched the video again, and then again. 43 seconds of black and white footage showing a man walk up to their door at 6:03 that morning and shove the letter through the letter box, along with junk mail before walking off to the next house, placing a flyer through their letterbox also. He scoured the footage for any clue that would lead him to who this guy was. It wasn’t Moran. Moran wouldn’t be stupid enough to pull such a brazen move, but then again, he had somehow managed to break into 221 B without Sherlock, John or the numerous agents of Mycrofts guarding the apartment, noticing.

But this was definitely _not Moran_.

Sherlock held up the grainy photo that had been taken from the surveillance footage. It didn’t offer many clues either. Male, approximately 5ft 5, late teens, early twenties, (although with the photo being blown up it had become grainy, making that point harder to confirm), around 130 - 135 pounds, although, again, that was hard to tell due to the massively large and lumpy coat that he was wearing, (not unreasonable, considering the early morning weather), hair colour undetermined thanks to a large knitted cap jammed down over his head. A pair of large glasses obscured the top half of his face and he carried himself with his head turned down.

Sherlock looked back to the video, on loop, playing on his lap top. There was no distinct way that he walked or carried himself. No tell in the way he moved that may make him distinguishable from anyone else. He didn’t even look around to make sure there was no one watching him, so either he was unaware that what he was doing was not of a friendly nature, or he just didn’t care.

It had taken Mrs Hudson nearly 15 minutes to rifle through the bin and find the junk mail that she had collected this morning and bring it up to him. There was only the one flyer. An advertisement for a travel agent, promoting Cypress, Singapore, Aarhus and Odžaci. The first three were places that John and Sherlock had done the most damage. The last one was a taunt that made the skin on Sherlock’s back prickle.

A quick search on the internet showed that AroundTravels did not actually exist, a fact that hadn’t surprised Sherlock in the least. The email address and the telephone number were just as false as the company name. From what Sherlock or Mycroft could gather, there were no clues to be had in the flyer, which had been distributed all along Baker Street, presumably as a ruse for the delivery man to go unnoticed. It was just a warning, a threat.

Moran knew what they had done and knew where they were. He was proving that he could sneak under the radar and get past all of Mycrofts preventative measures. He could strike at any time and no one would be the wiser, until it was too late.

Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of his (their?) bedroom door opening and barely awake feet shuffling into the kitchen.

“Morning?” John yawned as he shuffled over to the kettle, squeezing Sherlocks shoulder on the way past.

“Hardly. Its 5:23 in the afternoon John. You have slept most of the day away.”

Looking over his shoulder, as he took two mugs down from the cupboard, he gave an apathetic shrug. “Someone must have worn me out.”

Sherlock could hear the grin in his voice and grinned back. It dropped when he turned his attention back to the screen before him.

“What you got there?” John asked, pushing a mug of tea across the table towards him.

“Footage of the person who dropped the letter off” was the distracted reply as he focused on every small movement the man on the screen made.

“Of any use?” John asked and Sherlock slid the black and white photo across the table, with a shake of his head.

“Absolutely nothing. He used the guise of delivering pamphlets into surrounding letterboxes in order to slip the letter in, and he is that covered and hunched over that I can get nothing from him.”

John slid the photo back and continued to sip his tea. “And exactly how long have you been looking at all of this?”

“Two and half hours.”

“And you don’t think that if you take a break and come back to it with fresh eyes, you might see something you didn’t notice beforehand?”

“Now who is trying to seduce who.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the screen, but that didn’t stop the grin from spreading across his mouth.

 “No one. I was thinking we might actually get out of the flat and go for somewhere for dinner.”

The grin dropped from his mouth and he frowned thoughtfully, dropping his head into his hands, fisting his hair tightly. John was right. He had sat, staring between a 43 second video on loop and 2 uselessly unhelpful still shots of an unidentifiable man over and over again for two and a half hours. Staring at the same things, no matter from what angle, was not getting him anywhere. He needed to get out. Maybe a change of scenery would recharge his brain, which seems to have turned to something resembling the consistency of wallpaper glue.

With a deep breath he looked up at John. “Angelo’s?”

~o~

Sherlock wanted to pound his head against the brick wall in front of him. Another dead end. Another lead gone cold. Another informant with incorrect information.

It had been a week since John had received that letter. A week since they had found out that Moran had been watching their every single move. A week since they had been given one clue that really wasn’t a clue at all.

Sherlock had been looking for the mystery delivery man, but with no luck. The grainy photo had been copied and circulated between his homeless network. The video feed had been messaged to anyone of them that had a mobile that could support the data.

In that week Sherlock had had to find ways of distracting John while he went out to chase these leads up. It wasn’t that he was breaking his promise. He wasn’t going out after Moran, but Mycroft’s men were hopeless. It was why his brother had called on him in the first place. So Sherlock had started his own investigation, looking for leads that would give them any information that would help find the man (not Moran, like he had promised) in the photos. And so far he had gotten no where.

His latest endeavour had seen him out in a dirty alleyway in Manor Park with a young man and woman telling him that the man in the photo was none other than Billy Wiggins. Sherlock groaned in frustration. It had taken him over an hour, through two other people, to get a meeting with these two idiots, who were apparently one hundred percent sure that they knew the man in the photo. It had then taken another hour an a half to arrange a session at the local shooting range and to then convince John that it would be a good idea for him to get some practice in due to the fact that he had injured, rather badly, his shooting arm. Eventually he had conceded and once he had left Sherlock had made his way to Manor Park to meet with _Daz_ and _Jules_ only to find out that, no, they had no idea who they guy in the photo was because it most certainly was _not_ Billy Wiggins. And how did Sherlock know this? Because Billy Wiggins had a very distinct walk due to the fact that he has been pigeoned toed in his right foot for his entire life.

“So, you gonna pay us now?” Jules asked, her semi toothy grin sort of shining (if yellow can sort of shine) in the afternoon sunlight.

Sherlock glared at her and she shrunk back. This caused Daz to puff out his chest and step forward. “We was told…”

“That payment would be forwarded on any useful information” Sherlock spat, cutting him off. “If you were told otherwise it was by no fault of mine so you may take it up with the person who told you that you would be paid for completely _useless_ information!” And with that Sherlock turned and stalked out of the alleyway, to the loudly vocalised and highly unoriginal insults coming from both Daz and Jules behind him, soundtracking his departure.

A week of snooping, and over two and a half hours of organising for three minutes of pointless, useless interaction with _people_.

 _God_! Why was this proving to be so difficult?

Sherlock could only blame the lack of sleep (not that he was complaining about that), the disappointment and frustration of his last meeting and his need to get back to Baker Street so he would be there when John returned, for his total lack of observation. It is the only reason that he could later explain for not noticing someone getting out of the van that he just stalked past, and quickly walk up to him, sticking a small needle into the side of his neck.

With a small cry, Sherlock knocked the persons hand away, but it was too late. What ever had been in the needle was now coursing through his bloodstream, wrecking chaos and mayhem on his cognitive abilities and gross motor skills. Clumsily he spun around to face his attacker. There before him was a man in a big blue frumpy jacket, a black knitted cap and a pair of big heavy spectacles. Sherlock blinked as his brain slowly registered that it was the man from the photos. The man that he had been looking for, but something was wrong, because this man had Sebastian Moran’s face.

The last thing he thought, as a thick black blanket smothered his mind was, _“I’m sorry John_.”

~o~

Sherlocks hearing kicked in before his ability to move even the slightest muscle became possible. Wherever he was, it wasn’t home.

He tried thinking back on where he was last, but everything was fuzzy, and his head felt thick, as did his throat and tongue and he was very uncomfortable.

There was the sound of something, a tap or a leaking pipe, dripping somewhere, making a small puddle on concrete flooring. It was cold, and even though his eyes were closed he knew it was dark, and, _god_ what was that smell? No, he knew what it was. It was dead and it was rotten and Sherlock was pretty sure it was human. And it was strong.

Slowly the memories of the past few hours came back to him. Daz and Jules and the delivery boy that wasn’t the delivery boy, but was in fact Moran.

Sherlock tried wriggling his fingers only to find that they weren’t where they normally were when he woke up, (usually somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, or more recently, in Johns hair). They were above his head. High above his head. He twitched them a bit more, more feeling coming into his hands and he realised that his wrists were bound together, robe, old but dense, strong and bound expertly. The cable ties underneath must be for precaution.

As his body became more awake it became apparent that he had been strung up, his bare toes could barely gain purchase on the concrete beneath him. He had been stripped of everything but his trousers and his ankles were also bound together.

In short, he was fucked, especially as his head still felt as if it was filled with one of John’s jumpers and serious thinking was not on the agenda in the near future.

Finally he cracked his eyes open and instantly wished he hadn’t. There was only a small amount of light, coming from a lamp in the corner, but it seared through his head like hot pokers. The moan left his lips before he knew it was happening.

“Finally, your awake” came a cheerful voice from beyond the darkness. “I thought I might have given you too much.”

Sherlock, trying not to wince as the not overly loud voice pounded on his temples, took note of the voice. Male, gravelly, (heavy smoker for at least twenty years), clearly pronounced words, rounded vowels, arrogant (upperclass), cheerful, false friendliness, psychotic, (Sebastian Moran).

Sherlock opened his mouth to talk but it was like a whole bag of cotton balls had been shoved past his lips. He closed it again and worked his tongue inside his mouth, trying to produce some saliva. It worked. A bit.

“What is that smell?” he asked huskily, his stomach slightly roiling from the mixture of not enough food, not enough sleep and whatever he had been drugged with all being offset by that smell, which normally didn't bother him to this extent.

“I don’t know his name” Moran said, and Sherlock could almost hear the lazy shrug that went with it. “I just got him to carry out a job for me, which he did admirably, and then he was of no use anymore, so, I had a bit of fun with him. I thought he would have lasted longer than he did, but I guess that just goes to show that because you talk tough, doesn’t mean that you are tough.”

It took a few moments for Sherlocks brain to draw the lines that connected the dots, but eventually he got there. “The delivery boy.”

“I knew you were clever” Moran laughed, suddenly closer than he was before, and he casually slapped a hand to Sherlock’s back as if they were good friends and had just shared a good joke. Sherlock held in the gasp as pain lanced through his skin, but he couldn’t hold back the wince.

“So, that’s what you do. Use people and then _have fun_ with them?” Sherlock cracked open his eyes again, the pain was not so bad this time and he caught the manic gleam in Moran’s eyes.

“It’s a wonderful set up, though, isn’t it. I get what I want, they, well, I get what I want again. For me, it is a win all round situation and with you, Mr Holmes, I am going to have a lot of fun.”

Sherlock had no doubt about it, but that wasn’t going to stop him from delaying it, especially not without getting some answers first. “What, all because your boss killed himself and I didn’t actually die?”

At this Moran surprised Sherlock by laughing, and not just a chuckle, but a full on, doubled over laugh. Even when he was happy he sounded mad.

“Oh, god no. Is that what you really think all of this has been about? Because Jim put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

Sherlock studied Moran as well as he could in the dim light. He looked positively delighted, which didn’t bode well for Sherlock.

“I couldn’t give a shit about Moriarty. He was just a psycho little fucker. A little boy with too much power. It went to his god damn fucking head. He was right off his rocker that one.”

(Sherlock vaguely remembered a saying about a pot and a kettle and something about being black.)

“And I really couldn’t care less whether you died back then or not. I never cared about you at all. No, what I got all excited about was Captain John Watson, or should I say Doctor. He lost his ability to serve in the army, didn’t he.”

Sherlock tried not to let Moran’s words bother him, he had no right to disrespect John Watson, but he couldn’t help himself. “Better than a dishonourable discharge” Sherlock sniped.

“Good on you, you’ve done your homework” Moran said, patting him on the head like a child who had achieved something simple yet praiseworthy.

“Yes, I was dishonourably discharged which is why, when James drew my attention to one John Watson I was oh so ever pleased. You see, I don’t know what Johnny boy has told you, but we have met, him and I, a long time ago. We were good buddies.”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. The man was more deluded than previously thought. This got him a slap across the head, the pain reverberating around his skull was immense.

“When I met Johnny I knew he loved the thrill and danger of the war, or of any dangerous situation. I can spot an adrenaline junkie a mile a way, I thought I had found a partner in crime. He was a fucking perfect shot as well, even if he did play it down. I’m well trained. I know when people are holding back, and that moron Bill Murray couldn’t keep his mouth shut about him. He just had to brag. It was almost a shame when I put a bullet in his head. He was my last kill in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock made a mental note not to ask John about Bill after all. He knew all he had to.

“We tried to recruit little Johnny but god, he was a whiney little bitch. He kept moaning on about he was there to help people.”

At this Moran’s friendly commentary turned dark and angry.

“It was a fucking war. People were meant to die. The enemy were meant to die, but that faggoty little fucker patched not only the soldiers up, sending them home to live as cripples, but he also patched up the enemy.”

His anger seemed to simmer a bit and his next words weren’t so sharp.

“Those rag head bastards were ripe for the picking. All you had to do was hide in a rocky outcrop and pick them off one by one, and oh they were so fun to torture. The women weren’t the best fuck, but they did the job, and if it isn’t said in English then it isn’t a ‘ _no_ ’.” Again, he slapped Sherlock on the back as if they were sharing a funny anecdote. Sherlock found no humour what so ever about the situation, and the glare he shot at Moran said as much, but Moran paid him no mind and continued, his tone turning dark again.

“Apparently, according to reports that Jim acquired for me, John drew James Sholto’s attention to me, how he figured it out is beyond me. We both know he isn’t the smartest cookie in the batch, but figure it out he did and from then on it was all downhill. I got ‘ _suspected_ ’ of inappropriate activities and then got shipped home. My father stripped me of everything I had.” Moran seemed distant as he spoke those last words, but then a small smile touched his mouth, like he was remembering something fond from his past.

“That’s when Jim found me. As much of a fucking nuisance as he was I did owe him for getting me back in the game. The whole world was target practice. They just had to look at Jim wrong and he sent me after them and he didn’t mind if I played with them first. In fact, he encouraged it.

“When he told me to set my sights on John Watson it was like 42 years’ worth of Christmases had come at once. And god, wasn’t it entertaining to watch him fall apart, bit by bit after you threw yourself off of that bloody building. It was truly a pleasure to watch him fall apart, and I couldn’t wait for him to hit rock bottom before I got to put him out of his misery.”

Again, Moran’s mood went from delighted to angry in the blink of an eye and Sherlock couldn’t help but think that his mother may possibly have been smoking crack when she was pregnant with him.  Things definitely were not wired right up top.

“But then I noticed fucking Mycroft Holmes hanging around. I had to get away for a bit, before I was noticed. I had to focus on building up the Moriarty empire and act like he was still alive. I needed those contacts if I was to be able to continue his work. It wasn’t made public that Jim had died so it was easy to keep up the pretence that he was still running the show. A few rumours were spread about his demise, but those people didn’t last long. At least, they won’t be spreading rumours anymore.

"After I came back to London John had completely disappeared off of the radar.  No trace of him leaving the country, no trace of him entering another one.  I originally thought that he had taken himself somewhere quiet and isolated and finally offed himself." Sherlock could;t suppress the shiver that ran down his spine at that statement.  It was a thought he didn't want to think about.  "I was a bit sad that I hadn't been there to at least witness it, but now I know better.  He was far from ending it all.  Turns out, that little shit, and I am assuming you had something to do with it also, was the little bastard making my life hard."

There was finally silence in the room, apart from the dripping of the leaky pipe (Sherlock was certain it wasn’t a tap, it was dripping from too high up) somewhere in the distance and Sherlock used that time to go over everything he had learned since waking from his drug induced sleep.

In short, it came down to everything he had done had been a complete fucking waste of time. He had never needed to jump off that roof. The only immediate threat to John had died when Moriarty pulled that trigger.

Once Jim was dead Mycroft would have set to work on pulling his web apart and Sherlock and John could have worked together in making it happen. There had been no need for them to have been separated for all that time. It had all been pointless.

He had been looking at this entire problem from the wrong angle, under the assumption that Moran wanted him. But that was all wrong. This hadn’t been about him, not since Jim had taken his life on the top of St Barts. It had _never_ been about Sherlock. The second Jim had died it had been about John. And now there was no way to warn John, and he knew John would come after him, not knowing that it was all a fucked up trap set specifically for him.

“If you are so obsessed with John, then why target me. Why come after me and snatch me off the street?”

At this Moran grinned as if he had done something to be proud of.

“Because when John will come to save you, which we both know he will, he will see you broken and bleeding and it will be ever so delightful to see his reaction. Not as fun as it will be to see the look on his face when I kill you in front of him. That will really be the icing on the cake.

“Who knows? It might even be fun to keep him around for a bit longer afterwards to watch how his griefs eats him alive. Then, maybe, when I get bored, I might put the little shirt lifter out of his misery. Who knows? Maybe not. Maybe Jim was onto something with his little _pet_ obsession. Guess it depends on how easy he is to drag around when I go on my little working holidays.”

Sherlock instantly saw a flaw in Moran’s plan. He had made the mistake of thinking that John was an idiot. “Do you honestly expect him to come alone?”

Again, Moran grinned. “He will if I tell him to. If I tell him that I will kill his little boyfriend if he so much as breathes a word about it to anyone, he’ll be here, alone and unarmed, just you wait and see. But first, I want to have a little fun.”

Sherlock refused to cry out as the iron bar hit the back of his leg. He wasn’t so self-controlled by the time his thumb nail was ripped off.


	16. 15 - Savings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran has Sherlock and John will pull all the stops to get him back.

John looked at his phone again. 5:43pm. No new messages. No missed calls. This wasn’t right. He stood up from his chair and started pacing, only to stop because the reason he had sat down in the first place was because he had been mindlessly pacing for an hour straight. Sitting back down he looked at his phone again, trying to see if it were faulty in any way.

John had come home from the shooting range, which had allowed him to let off a lot of tension, with full intentions of thanking Sherlock for suggesting that he go in the first place. He had gone into quite a lot of detail in thinking of all the ways he could thank Sherlock on the ride back to the flat, only, when he got home, Sherlock was no-where to be seen.

When he asked the guards outside where Sherlock had gone they replied with, “As far as we are aware he hasn’t left the flat.”

John went back inside and spoke to Mrs Hudson. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast, so John went up to his room, (which was now, really, a large wardrobe since he hadn’t slept there in just over a week). As predicted, it was empty. Quickly he sent off a text to Sherlock.

**You need to come home now and when you get here we are going to discuss the meaning of security detail.**

Then, thrusting his phone back in his back pocket he dug the step ladder out from the storage cupboard next to his room and climbed up to the cramped attic space and had a look around, just to make sure. There was at least two years worth of dust around the man hole. No one had been up here in a long time. John climbed back down the ladder and brushed the dust and cobwebs out of his hair and put the ladder away, then pulling his phone back out of his pocket ( _no reply to his message_ ) he sent another message.

**It seems your total arse of a brother has managed to leave the house without alerting your men. Do you have any idea where he is?**

The reply was almost instant.

**I will view CCTV footage as well as surveillance footage and get back to you. MH**

As John made his way back downstairs everything clicked into place. Sherlock had been pushing him out of the flat, at least once a day since Moran had contacted them a week ago.

A frustrated sound formed in the back of Johns throat as he realised that the utter tosser had been going out, alone, and conducting his own investigation. John was sure that he had kept to his word and wasn’t going straight after Moran, but Sherlock would have found a loophole in his promise and started looking for clues as to where he was, and the fact that he had been hiding it meant that he knew John wouldn’t approve.

“ _I am going to fucking kill him_ ” John mumbled, going into the kitchen and filling the kettle up, slamming it down on the stove top.

Not even ten minutes later he was sitting on his chair, steaming mug of tea in his hand and staring at his phone as if Sherlock would reply to his message if John willed it hard enough.

Suddenly the screen lit up and Johns heart bolted up into his throat, but instantly dropped when he saw that it was Mycroft.

**It appears that my brother managed to wriggle out of the bathroom window and scale down the drain pipe. Apparently it is not the first time he has done it either. He snuck through the back alley and from there on in we have lost him. I will inform you when we have picked up his trail again. MH**

John stared at the text and reading it again in its entirety and then just the first sentence. And then again. ‘ _Wriggle out of the bathroom window_.’ How in the fuck did he manage that? That window only had to be around 1.5 ft by 1.5 ft.

Just to clarify this John got up and went into the bathroom, looking at the small, open (It was never open. In fact, John hadn’t even been aware that it could be opened), window above the tub, and, yes, it was fucking tiny. And then he saw it. The slight, partial footprint on the edge of the tub and then a full footprint on the wall tile halfway between the tub and the window, obviously from where he had placed his foot to gain more leverage.

 _“That crazy bastard_ ” John muttered and set about sending Sherlock another message.

**Really, the bathroom window. Do I even want to know how?**

John went back to his chair to wait and finish his tea. Still no reply.

This wasn’t right. Since they had returned Sherlock always replied. _Always._

After another fifteen minutes he sent him another message.

**Answer me. I need to know you are okay.**

Nothing.

**You arse. If you have gone and gotten yourself into trouble, without me, again, I will find you and haul your arse back home, kicking it the entire way.**

Nothing.

An hour later and 12 more text messages, all un-replied to, there was the sound of the front door opening. Quickly, John got up out of his chair and rushed out to the landing, ready to start yelling at Sherlock, but when he looked over the banisters it was the wrong Holmes brother looking up at him, and the look on his face didn’t help settle John’s anxiety one little bit.

~o~

The file Mycroft had left John with sat, opened and spread out on the coffee table, next to a half a cup of cold tea. Sherlock had last been seen exiting a cab in front of a Jewish Butcher in Manor Park at 11:38 that morning, which meant that he had left no more than ten minutes after John, after exiting the alley way behind Baker Street and taking two taxis to get to where he needed to be. (John fumed at the fact that he had purposely been trying to evade all points of security.) There he was seen heading into an alley way and that was where Mycroft lost him. There had been no evidence of him on any security footage that surround the area he disappeared into.

‘ _Manor Park. What was at Manor Park?_ ’ he asked himself looking at the photo of Sherlock getting out of the cab. There were a couple of other people in the shot but none of them looked familiar nor did any of them look as if they were about to engage Sherlock or vice versa.

With a frustrated sigh John had stood up and started pacing, pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking it every now and then. That is when he had realised what he was doing and sat back down in his chair.

Deciding that he could n longer sit in the flat waiting for….something, John stood back up and strode to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

 

~o~

Red Block pulled up to exactly where Sherlock had been dropped off, right in front of the little butcher. “ _Krakowski’s Kosher Cuts_ ” apparently offered the largest selection of the finest cuts of Kosher meat and poultry in London. John looked through the window. It was dark. No one was inside.

“This the alley way he went down sir?” Red Block asked, pointing down the narrow opening between the butchers and “ _Re-read_ ” the pre-loved bookstore.

“That’s the one” John confirmed and together, torches in hands, guns tucked away out of sight, the two of them made their way down the narrow alleyway.

John looked at the ground as he walked, taking note of anything that may be a clue as to what direction may have headed off in, but there was nothing. At least not to his eye anyway. He was sure that if Sherlock was there he would have pointed out half a dozen tiny observations by now, but he wasn’t there was he? No! He had gone off doing his own little thing, _again_ , and that was why, now, John was here, freezing his arse off and trying not to trip over scattered rubbish and other debris in the dark.

John was quite happily having his little inner monologue rant when he found their first clue. It was in the form of a small, petite, mismatched ensemble indian girl. She was huddled up between two trashcans, wrapped in a blanket that had more holes in it than it didn’t. But John recognised her. She had been one of Sherlocks regulars from before. Pulling his wallet out of his pocket he extracted a £50 note and Knelt down holding up his phone which had a photo of Sherlock lit up on the screen.

“I know you know this man” John said gently, not wanting to frighten her off. “I need to know if you have seen him recently, maybe today?” And he held up the money.

The girl looked from the phone to the money to the John.

“You’re ‘is Doctor, Yeah?” She said, staring him in the eyes.

John nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

Slowly the girl pushed the blanket back and then leant over, pulling up the leg of her pants as she sat back up. John angled the phone down, using it as a light so he could see what she was showing him.

There, on her leg, was a jagged looking cut, at least two days old, approximately six inches long, quite deep and clearly infected. He looked from the girls leg up to the SIS agent behind him.

“Is there a first aid kit in the car?” he asked.

“There is” the man nodded.

“Gives us a hand will you?” and together they helped the girl up and assisted her back to the car.

Red Block surveyed the area while John worked on the girls leg as she sat in the back of the car. He could tell the agent was tense and he didn’t blame him. They were sitting ducks out in the open like this, but he had no choice. This girl wasn’t going to talk unless he patched her up.

“‘e was ‘ere, wasn’ ‘e. Jus’ this aftanoon.” She spoke as John cleaned out the wound as best he could and then set about suturing it. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the first aid kit was more like a small doctors supply cupboard.

“And?” John prompted after she stopped talking when he administered the local anaesthetic.

With a wince and a small hiss as he withdrew the syringe she continued. “Was afta Daz and Jules, ya know. They 'ad some information for ‘im, like.”

“Daz and Jules?” John asked. “And information on what?”

“You sure you know what ya doin’?” she asked as John set the needle to her skin to start sewing her leg up.

“Pretty certain, but you were saying?”

With a deep breath the girl informed him “Couple a’ days ago Jules said she ‘ad some information for ‘im, somfin about a photo ‘e ‘ad. Said she knew ‘oo th’ guy in th’ picture was.”

John bit down his frustration. Sherlock had been circulating the surveillance photo of the delivery guy to his homeless network, trying to get more answers. He focused on stitching her leg in order not to get angry over Sherlock being, well…Sherlock.

“Anyways, so ‘e was ‘ere this arvo and I ain’t seen ‘im since, but I did see Daz not long afta. Was bitchin’ ‘bout posh twats not payin’ up, like. I would say it soun’s like ‘e run into Shezza” (John nearly choked on the inhaling breath at the moniker) “But if Shezz says ‘e’s gonna pay ya, then ‘e’s gonna pay ya, ya know.”

John did know, but seriously? How many posh twats would be looking for homeless around here?

“Do you by any chance know where I might find Daz and Jules?” John asked as he continued the neat little stitches.

“Round abouts now maybe prob’ly at Hivver Green Train Station. Jules likes t’ fancy ‘erself a bit of a singer an' tha's where she likes t' busk. If I was you I’d wait until the station shuts an’ meet ‘er outside. Your ears ‘ll thank ya’ for it.”

John tied off the final stitch and cut the excess off, tidying everything away before placing a dressing over the wound.

Quickly he scribbled a short note and an address on a piece of paper and handed it over to her with the £50 note. “Go to this address tomorrow and ask to see Doctor Brownford. Give him this note and he will fill out a prescription for you. The cut is infected. Get the antibiotics and take them all. Keep the wound dry and clean.” With that John stood up and stepped out of the way so the girl could get out from the car.

“Thanks a bunch doc, and I ‘ope you find ‘im” she said with a sympathetic smile and then limped back down the alley way, presumably to her place between the two rubbish bins.

As John walked to a near by bin, throwing away all of his rubbish Red Block (John really needed to stop calling him that in his head. One day it was going to slip out.) Walked up to him, taking the first aid kit and placing it back in the boot of the car.

“Hither Green Train Station?” he asked and John gave a curt nod before getting into the car, regrettably thinking that he didn’t get a description about what Daz and Jules looked like. With any luck, his ears would find them for him.

~o~

The homeless girl wasn’t joking when she said he should wait outside for Daz and Jules.

They hadn’t been in the station for ten minutes before he heard the most cringe worthy noise. At first he thought someone was dying and he was going to have to put his doctor hat back on but then Sellers pointed out a rather tubby looking woman with pink hair, only half her teeth and wearing something that looked like it should have belonged to Michelle Pfeiffer in batman, with a green trench coat over it, and good she sounded awful.

John couldn’t be certain but he thought it was meant to be a Boyzone song (He regrettably had a girlfriend in uni who was a fan. The bands entire catalogue up until the day he and her broke up had forever been seared into Johns memory) but he couldn’t be sure. He most definitely doubted himself when Sellers asked “Is that meant to be U2?”

John just shook his head and made his way to the ‘ _entertainment_ ’ in Hither Green, cringing more as he got closer. He would take an entire Symphony of Sherlocks music, specifically dedicated to his brother, over this any day.

As they got closer John noticed a large Straw hat at her feet and surprisingly it had money in it.

“They must be paying her to shut up” Sellers mumbled, obviously noting what John had, and despite his shit mood he cracked a smile in agreement.

Not standing too far from what he hoped was Jules was an unkempt scruffy looking guy, leaning against the wall, arms crossed defensively across his chest, glaring at everyone that walked past, daring them to say something about his woman.

John decided that he must be either completely deaf or completely crazy to put up with this on a regular basis, but at the moment that was not his problem.

“You Daz?” John asked, sidling up in front of him. The man, late 30’s; chronic smoker; balding; combover; skinny as a rake, stood up and levelled his gaze at John.

“Who the fuck is asking” he sneered.

John was about to answer when Sellers stepped between the two of them and discretely pulled the left side of his jacket back. “I suggest you just answer the man’s questions because I don’t feel like hiding a body tonight” he murmured low enough so only Daz and John could hear.

Daz’s eyes widened as he spied the gun at Sellers’ side and glared over his shoulder to John, and John could see, despite the scowl, the fear in his eyes. Just as John suspected. He talked big, but was yellower than Laa Laa.

“What do you want?” he asked, still trying to sound tough, but the slight quiver in his voice gave him away.

“You seen him?” John asked, holding up his phone, displaying the photo of Sherlock.

At seeing it the mans frown deepened. “He owe you money too?” he asked, but then his gaze quickly skittered back to Sellers, who was still standing between John and himself.

“Oh, no” John answered. “He owes me so much more than that.”

At this Daz sneered. “That bastard disrespected my Jules, and then he didn’t pay us for information that could prove dangerous to us, just from knowing it, let alone sharing it.”

John didn’t hide his disgust as Daz turned his head and spat on the ground. “When you find him, you tell him that me and Jules is going to catch up with him, and when we do, he’ll be wishing he hadn’t run stint on us. That’s if the guy in the van don’t fuck him up first.”

At this Johns gaze intensified on Daz. “What guy?” he growled.

Daz shrugged and Sellers leaned into his space just a bit more.

“I, I don’t know alright. I was just following the twat, was going to demand our payment, and then I see him getting hauled into a blue van, all limp like, like he was unconscious or something.”

“What did he look like?” John demanded, Captain Watson sneaking up to the fore.

“Tall, lanky, posh suit, big coat, pretty hair…”

“Not Sherlock, you moron, the guy pulling him into the van.” John was about to snap, right here in front of dozens of people while Jules tried to belt out a power ballad from the late 90s, nearing a pitch that could shatter glass completely oblivious to the interrogation going on behind her.

Daz stuttered as John levelled his gaze at him and Sellers once again, brought just the but of his gun into view. “I..it….just…I couldn’t really tell. He had a hat, like the knitted kind, pulled right down and his Jacket was bulky and he had glasses.”

John took a step back. It was the delivery boy. Somehow the lanky youth who had pushed the letter through their letterbox had overpowered Sherlock and managed to drag him into a van. How? There may not be a lot of weight on Sherlock but he was heavy, and strong, and bloody stubborn. If he didn’t want to get into that van then he wouldn’t have, not without making a scene, not unless…. John could feel himself pale at the thought of Sherlock being seriously injured. Stabbed, Shot, head injury, drugged with god knows what?

John came back into the now of the sound of Daz going “No, no, no, no, wait, hang on, go back one. Yeah, thats it, thats the one.”

“Are you sure?” Sellers asked, his tone screaming that if Daz was wrong or lying he would track him down and no one would find the body.

“Yeah, positive mate. And there was this sticker, like a big green smiley face, right there.”

John looked around and saw Daz point to the screen of Sellers phone, which was displaying a picture of a blue utility van. While John had been lost in his head Sellers had kept on with the inquiry, pulling up pictures of blue work vans on his phone and scrolling through them all until Daz had recognised the one from that afternoon.

Deciding that they had all they needed from Daz the two men turned and went to leave when Daz called out, “Well, is that all then.”

With an annoyed, deep breath John turned around. “No, there is one more thing” and Daz’s eyes lit up as John stuck his hand in his coat pocket. They quickly darkened again when he realised John wasn’t fishing for his wallet. Instead he copied Sellers move and discretely pulled back the front of his jacket to show his own weapon.

“You even think about going near Sherlock Holmes again and my friend here won’t have to worry about hiding the body, because there will be nothing left to hide. Are we clear?”

With an overactive nod of his head Daz stepped back and Sellers and John left the train station, welcoming the familiar, almost unnoticeable sounds of London’s traffic.

~o~

The following day Greg phoned to say that they had found the 2004 Ford Econoline Cargo Van, abandoned on the outskirts of London, nowhere near Manor Park.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” he asks.

“Green smiley face sticker on the left hand rear panel, just like you said.”

John let out a shaky exhale.

“You alright mate?” he vaguely heard Greg ask.

John clutched the phone in his hand. “Yeah, just, not much sleep.” And it was true. He had tossed and turned all night, not being able to get comfortable without Sherlock to either curl around or to use John as a human pillow. When he did manage to sleep it was in fits and starts and was tainted with images of Sherlock, unmoving, unresponsive, unalive.

“We’ll find him” Greg reassured, “If it helps, there was nothing suspicious in the van to indicate serious injury.”

John inhaled again. “Yeah, I know. Thanks Greg.”

“Just doing my job” he said lightly, but John knew it was much more than that. He hadn’t taken Sherlocks death well either and it had hit him hard when he returned. Greg had admitted, just last week, that sometimes he still doesn’t believe it is real, so to have him taken away again, would hit the man hard. Not as hard as it would hit John, but it would be devastating all the same.

“Thanks anyway” John said. “I’ll keep you updated if I hear anything more” and with that he rang off. John sat back in his chair and he could just feel himself dozing off, against his will, when he heard the front door, downstairs open. His eyes snapped open and he listened to the footfalls on the stairs, hoping to hear familiar hurried steps, going two at a time, but instead there was the equally familiar steady, one at a time step, accompanied by the occasional metal click of an umbrella tip hitting the wood step.

“Come in, Mycroft” John said before the knock came, not even bothering to look in the doorway.

Mycroft made his way over and sat down in Sherlocks chair. John felt that this should have rankled John but he knew that Mycroft was trying just as hard to find Sherlocks whereabouts and without his help John would be utterly lost (well, more lost than he was now) so he sat back and offered the older man a cup of tea.

“Not this time, thank you John. I am here on some pressing matters.”

John sat and watched Mycroft, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I believe that any day now you will receive communication, one way or another, directly from Moran, relating to the whereabouts of Sherlock.

“I assumed as much” John said with a weary sigh.

“Then, Doctor Watson, I guess it best if we are prepared, don’t you?”

~o~

_Dear Johnny Boy,_

_I thought it was about time that you joined our little party. Your little boyfriend and I have been having a grand old time, but he’s not as chatty now and it is starting to get a bit dull. I thought he might liven up a bit if you joined the party._

_3 Browning Street, Walworth. Come alone, tonight. Don’t tell anyone where you are going, no gun. You don’t follow these instructions you won’t have a boyfriend any more._

_I look forward to finally getting to chat with you again,_

_Your friend,_

_Sebastian Moran._

John looked back down the street but the kid was long gone. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have anything useful to say that he hadn’t already told John as he thrust the letter into his hand after John had returned from a brief walk to get out of the flat, which seemed to be suffocating him.

“You Doctor Watson, yeah?” the kid had asked as John inserted the key in the lock. John had confirmed that he was, watching the agent across the road getting ready to act if anything went untoward. “Some big guy gave me a £100 to make sure you got this.”

John took the envelope that was thrust into his hand and when he looked up the kid was walking away. John looked to the agent across the road who gave a slight nod and spoke into a microphone that was somehow cleverly concealed. As John looked back up the street he saw a woman stand up from the bench and start to discretely follow the kid.

Quickly, John tore the envelope open and read the contents. It was exactly as he had been expecting, all though he was worried about the fact that Sherlock was no longer ‘ _chatty_ ’. Sherlock never shut up unless he wanted to. Not without force, anyway.

Turning back to the door John made his way up stairs, running over the letter again. It was exactly the demands he and Mycroft had expected and discussed two days prior.

_Come alone. Come unarmed._

Fortunate for Sherlock, but not so fortunate for Moran, they had been in this situation more than once before. John wasn’t an idiot, and he most certainly wasn’t about to walk into a hostile situation without having some form of defence or backup.

Not taking any chances that the house hadn’t been bugged again, nor his phone monitored, he walked over to the lounge room window, left to the desk and sent the message.

~o~

As he thought, the meeting place was not overly that desirable. John was a little bit disappointed that Moran had proven to be so horribly predictable. At least Moriarty had put in some effort, but then again, Moran had never been know for his brain power. Even as being head of Moriarty’s network now, the hard work had already been done. He just had to continue turning the wheel to keep it all in motion.

Browning street was a side street with busted street lamps, a bicycle wheel still chained to a pole, something that may or may not have been a dead cat in the gutter, dented and graffitied roller shutters on the doors, bars on the windows. All the stores were either empty or non-discript except for a dodgy as hell looking nail salon. It practically screamed onychomycosis. One building had its door open. John guessed that was number three.

There were no lights on inside, but the one street lamp that hadn’t been smashed shone through into the building.

‘ _How convenient’_ John thought sarcastically and pulled his gun out of the back of his waistband.

Quietly, John made his way inside, tentatively placing his feet, trying to avoid any squeaky floorboards. He stopped and listened. Nothing. There was no sound coming from that floor or the one above.

John continued down the narrow hallway, towards the back of the building until he came across a door. Underneath the crack he could see the faintest strip of light. Taking his chances that that was where Sherlock would be he cracked the door open, slowly and silently.

The first thing he noticed was a slight odour. He sniffed. What was that? Was that… Johns heart felt like it had stopped, just for a brief moment. Although it wasn’t strong, there was no mistaking the smell. That was the smell of a long-dead body.

Pushing back the voice that whispered he was _too late, Sherlock is already dead_ , John silently made his way down the stairs that were on the other side of the door. Of course it was a basement. This entire abduction had been textbook all the way. As he made his way further down the weak light got a bit stronger, but so did the smell. It was rancid down here. But all thoughts of fouls smells left his head when he reached the bottom stair. A little further into the room John saw a familiar figure, hanging from bound wrists, limp, head drooped forward, illuminated by a dim lamp in the corner.

Quickly John made his way over to Sherlocks (hopefully) unconscious form, keeping an eye out for anything that was moving in the shadows.

“Sherlock” he gasped as he reached the body and his hand went straight to Sherlocks neck, searching for a pulse. John let out a long slow breath at the relief of feeling a sign of life under the pads of his fingers. He quickly did a more thorough sweep of the room , ascertaining that there was no threat. He found nothing but the crumpled body of some unknown man. The source of the pungent odour in the room.

Deciding that John was of no use to him now he returned back to Sherlock and had a good look at him. He was cut and bruised and his left foot sat at a slightly odd angle. His breathing was shallow but steady, but it didn’t sound wet which was a good sign.

John manoeuvred so he was standing in front of Sherlock, which unfortunately left his back exposed to the doorway, but there was no helping that at the moment.

“Sherlock” he called quietly, grabbing the man’s chin gently in his spare hand and angled his face up. “Sherlock” John said again, a bit louder this time. Relief flooded through him as Sherlocks eyes fluttered then slowly opened a, just a bit, but it was enough.

A small effort of a smile touched Sherlocks lips and then dropped away. “John” he rasped, his mouth and throat obviously dry. “Trap. You need to go.”

John smiled at him. “Yeah, we sort of figured that out, but I have to get you down first.”

Sherlock attempted to shake his head, but he was weak and his chin was still in John’s hand.

“Yes, Sherlock” John ordered. “You are coming with me or I am staying here. I know what I’d rather.”

John let go of Sherlocks face and reached around to tuck his gun into the back of Sherlocks pants, in order to free up his hands. He pulled a small knife out of his back pocket and spoke to Sherlock again.

“I’m going to wrap my arm around your back to hold you up while I cut the rope. I’m so sorry if this hurts at all” and before Sherlock could even have a chance to try and reply, John circled the middle of his torso with his right hand and pulled him as close as possible, while still allowing enough room to work. Sherlock hissed in pain, but there was no jerking or other vocal signs of discomfort so John held up hope that nothing was fractured or broken.

With his left hand he reached up and started sawing through the rope, careful not to knick any skin as he worked. Before long Sherlocks arms dropped down, falling over Johns shoulder encircling his neck as his wrists were still joined by the cable ties.

“Can you walk?” John asked quietly. Sherlock gave a slight nod and John ducked under from Sherlocks arms and moved to his side, keeping his arm around Sherlocks waist. They went to move forward but where stopped when Sherlock placed weight on his left leg and John had to tighten his grip as Sherlock cried out and nearly fell.

“Alright, I’ll have to carry you.” John suggested.

Even in his beaten and exhausted state Sherlock managed to throw a glare at John.

“No” he said, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll be fine, just took me by surprise.”

“Sherlock, you are not….”

“John, you need your arms free, because Moran is not far away. I walk or we die.”

John couldn’t argue with that. “Fine, but we need to hurry. Your brothers men are out there, but they couldn't intervene until they were certain you were here and it was safe for us to for them to move in.”

Just then a _'tsk tsk tsk'_  alerted to the fact that he had company.

“I told you, I’d kill the little poofter if you blabbed" a voice said, as if he were disappointed in John.

John looked up and in the dim light he could make out Sebastian Moran, as cocky looking as he had been seven years ago when John had seen him out on their make-shift shooting range.

“You said that you would kill him if I told anyone where I was going, but surely you must have been aware we were being tailed therefore I would have been followed here, against my will, but, no, I wouldn’t expect a meat head like you to realise that. You always were a bit dim, relied on good looks and money to get you places. The fact that you were a mediocre shot was ignored due to the fact that you were psycho enough to carry out the fucked up jobs the army didn’t want to associate themselves with.”

John heard the hitch in Sherlocks breath and didn’t know if was panic that he was antagonising the man who had a gun pointed at John or amusement at the fact that normally it was Sherlock who riled up the mad men with guns.

Johns comment had an effect on Moran as he threw John a glare that was surely meant to intimidate, but right now, John was just feeling pissed off. He just wanted to live a happy, quiet life with Sherlock, and without all of this drama.

“Mediocre Shot?” Moran sneered, spit flying out of his mouth. “Do you know how many people I killed?”

John tried to hold back the small snort of laughter, but he was only mildly successful. “You were hiding and took them by surprise. I can guarantee most of them were stationary targets and you would have had state of the art equipment. Even a moron could have pulled off most of those shots. No, your only use was that you were a fucking sadistic animal.” John tightened his grip around Sherlock, as the other man started to slump further. He needed to get Sherlock out of here, now, before he passed out again and he had no idea how long Mycrofts men would wait before taking matters into their own hands.

A feral grin spread across the other mans mouth, making him look very much like the animal John had accused him of being. “Like you can talk. I know what you have been getting up to these past months. I didn’t realise it was you at first, but I have since caught up. I must say, I was impressed. Welcome to the club Doctor Watson.”

“I am nothing like you” John spat, anger burning through him at even the slightest thought that they were alike, mixed with shame over all of the lives he had taken in order to bring this man down.

Seeing the conflict on Johns face, Moran laughed. “You are exactly like me. Maybe there is hope for you yet.” He took a step closer, lowering his gun, just slightly, and John straightened his posture, just a bit more, refusing to shrink away. His fingers tightened on Sherlocks side, fighting the impulse to drop Sherlock and pull his own gun.  “You know, I had lured you here to kill you, but I think I might have some use for you yet. What say you put a bullet in his little pansy head and me and you go and rule the world? I’d quite like a companion.”

The feral grin and the manic look in Moran’s eyes made the skin on the back of John’s neck prickle. He was now looking at the man he had seen in Afghanistan, the one he wasn’t meant to see. The cold killer. “You’re more fucking delusional than I thought.”

Moran shrugged. “Well, if you won’t then I will.” He raised his gun up again and this time aimed it at Sherlocks head.

Without thinking John gave into the impulse and dropped Sherlock, grabbing the gun he had tucked into the back of Sherlocks pants as the other man fell to the floor.  It had been out of sight from Moran until it was aimed at his head. John didn’t give Moran time to react, he just pulled the trigger.

If it wasn’t for the hole in between his eyes and the small trickle of blood slowly making it’s way down the bridge of his nose John would have sworn he had missed as, for what seemed like forever, but in truth would have only been a few seconds, Moran just stood there, with a slight stunned look on his face, teetering slightly. John was starting to think that somehow he just wasn’t dead. Then he slumped to the floor.

“And you tell me not to antagonise the man pointing the gun” came the dry rasped voice from the floor. John quickly tucked his gun away and bent down to help Sherlock up.

“Yeah well, apparently bad habits rub off. Just a pity it was over so quick” John huffed, tucking his hands under Sherlocks knees and shoulders. Despite his protests, John was going to carry him up the stairs. He had no desire to be there any longer than he had to.

John winced as he stood up, his shoulder straining under the added weight of Sherlocks body.

“John, I really am sorry…”

“Not now, Sherlock, let’s just get you upstairs, yeah” John said, trying to sound as if he wasn’t struggling. “If Mycroft isn’t here yet he will be soon.”

Awkwardly John stepped over the body of Moran and up they went, away from the last major piece of the web. They could finally breath and get on with their lives. It was over.

“You can put me down now” Sherlock said as they walked out into the hall and slowly John lowered Sherlock to the ground, still adding support, knowing that Sherlock would be mortified if anyone had seen him being carried.

Slowly they made their way down the hall, Sherlock leaning on John as he limped along, trying not to make any noise as he stepped on, what John was pretty sure was a broken ankle, and John, Leaning into Sherlock, holding him up. They stopped when they noticed a dark figure standing in the open door ahead of them.

John reached back around for his gun but stopped when the figure spoke. ‘Doctor Watson, Sir” came the low voice of Sellers. “Do you need assistance? We heard a gun shot.”

“The threat has been eliminated, but we need a stretcher in here” John directed and carefully he started lowering Sherlock on to the ground, sitting him up against the wall as Sellers made his way back out onto the street to organise the stretcher for Sherlock.

While they were alone John looked over what parts of Sherlock he could see. He had slipped back into unconsciousness again. His bare chest and arms had been cut and scratched, his fingers were all bloodied. John couldn’t be sure, but in the dim light it looked like his finger nails had been pulled off. There were bruises all over him, blood crusted in his hair and right nostril and his lips were dry to the point of being cracked, all on top of the busted leg.

All up it wasn’t a pretty sight, but it could have been worse. A lot worse.

Two medics came up the narrow hallway, interrupting Johns medical evaluation of the man before him and moved Sherlock onto the stretcher, wheeling him away to an awaiting ambulance. John followed behind, but was stopped as he stepped out onto the street by Sellers.

“The Boss would like to have a word with you, sir.”

John went to object but behind the mountain of a man John could see Mycroft standing by a sleek, black car, door open in what was not an invitation, but an order.

With a sigh, and a final look as Sherlock was placed in the back of the ambulance, the doors shutting soon after, John made his way over to the waiting car and slid in. Mycroft followed, shut the door and the car took off, following the ambulance.

“As you are not family, they would not have let you ride with him. I assure you, this is the fastest way for you to be with him again.”

John didn’t have it in him to thank Mycroft, so he sat silently and waited for Mycroft to say what he really wanted to say.

“Will Moran still be a problem?” he finally asked.

“Dead” was Johns only reply.

“Are you certain?” Mycroft asked, needing clarification.

“Unless he can survive a bullet between the eyes, then yeah, pretty sure.”

John watched the city speed past as they drove in silence. It didn’t last long.

“Doctor Watson, John” Mycroft began. “It appears that you have saved my brothers life once again. For this you will never know how grateful I am.”

John turned and looked at Mycroft, who was not looking at John, but was looking out his own window. John could have been hearing things, he was exhausted after all, but it sounded like Mycroft was holding back tears.

John didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see Mycroft being the kind of man who would appreciate a comforting hand on the shoulder and being told that everything is going to be okay. This would probably have to be the most emotion he had ever seen the man show.

With a small sniff Mycrofts entire persona changed, from…what ever that had been…to his usual cool, aloof self and he turned his sharp gaze back to John. “Anthea has arranged for your name to be listed as next of kin, with instructions that you are to have special visiting privileges and instant, unencumbered assess to his medical records.”

John went to open his mouth to thank Mycroft but at that moment the car slowed down to a stop and when John looked out the window they had arrived at the hospital. He turned back to Mycroft.

“Again, John, thank you. I expect an update on my brothers condition as soon as you are able to provide one.  In the meantime, know that we will handle the Moran case from here.  It is no longer your burden.”

Mycroft fixed John a stare that said the discussion was over. He had been seen in a compromising situation. He had been seen showing sentiment. He didn’t want to be reminded of it any longer, so with a quick nod and a small but grateful smile, John exited the car, striding towards the emergency exit to find Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “He talked big, but was yellower than Laa Laa". Laa Laa was the name of the yellow Teletubby. If you don’t know what a Teletubby is then you are truly blessed.
> 
> ** If you didn’t guess already onychomycosis is a fungal infection of the nail. It’s not pretty.


	17. 16 - Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the take down of Moriarty's web is over and Sherlock and John can start to really focus on them.

Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. He remembers doctors (that weren’t John, why weren’t they John?) tending to his wounds. An IV to combat dehydration. An x-ray to see the damage to his ankle. Fracture only. Set in a cast. His fingers were taped where the nails had been pulled off. (No violin for a while… Again.) The cleaning and patching of various cuts and scratches. There may have been other minor, insignificant injuries, but between exhaustion, concussion and the pain killers that had been administered there were some rather fuzzy parts that Sherlock could not remember between getting out of that basement and waking up here, in the darkened hospital room.

Sherlock laid there, tense, surrounded by the dark and the almost silence, the general sounds of a hospital in the dead of night. There was a soft beeping coming from somewhere. It wasn’t his room though. The door was open it was coming from across the hall. Then a soft snuffling noise.

Sherlock relaxed. He knew that sound. That was the sound of a John Watson in a deep sleep. He had heard it often enough in the past three months. He went to move his hand to the figure sitting prone in the chair next to his bed, slumped forward, but changed his mind. John had performed wonderfully today and must be extremely tired. He deserved his sleep.

Sherlock relaxed back into the pillow behind his head (as much as one can relax in a hospital bed).

Moran was dead. Mycroft would take care of the body. Then they would track down the remainder of the network, all minor players but not to be underestimated, so no one else could refill the shoes of James Moriarty.

He settled back and watched John in the muted light coming in from the open door. Even in sleep he had a small frown on his face. Sherlock knew he had a lot of explaining to do in the morning. Maybe he could feign unconsciousness until his headache was completely gone.

No, the lecture he would get would be worth it. He was alive, Moran was dead and John was safe. After all, that was what this entire clusterfuck had been about. He let out a soft groan as he tried to stretch his leg out and found that it weighted down and most definitely not going to move. Bloody cast. That was going to get in the way. He didn’t know what was worse. This or the one that had been on his arm after he miscalculated his drop off of Bart’s. He slowly bent and straightened his left arm with a small wince of pain, revelling in the freedom he had of it not being set at a permanent 45 degree angle.

 _‘Definitely the arm_ ’ he told himself giving it one last flex, scowling at the IV tube tugging and pulling at the needle in his arm. He would dearly love to pull it out but then the machine would beep and that would wake John up.

More slowly this time he raised both of his arms. Even in this light he could see bruises mottling his pale skin. Dressings had been wrapped around his wrist to protect the damage caused by the rope that had been stringing him up.

Thinking back over the last two days Sherlock felt a bit let down, and extremely relieved at the same time, over Moran’s methods. He had nothing on the Serbians. (A shiver ran down his spine at that memory. That was torture.)

John had made Moran to be some kind of vile creature that only normally existed in nightmares, and while Sherlock certainly hadn’t enjoyed the experience, he could honestly, and unfortunately, say he had suffered through worse.

“You were let off lightly” Sherlock startled at the sound of John’s voice. He had been so wrapped up in studying the damage done to his hands andarms that he hadn’t noticed the absence of the quiet snuffle like snore that had served as comfortable background noise.

Sherlock turned his head towards John, cocking an eyebrow, and then realised that the light was behind his head so John wouldn’t be able to see the gesture in the low light.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, if he wasn’t hoping to really get stuck into you until after I arrived, then you would have suffered a lot more than what you did. He went lightly. Trust me. I have seen what Moran is capable of. He was just getting warmed up.”

“How can you be certain?”

John sighed.  “He thought I would listen to his note and come unarmed and alone. I dare say the idea was to join you where he would torture and kill us both, both having to witness the pain and suffering of the other.”

Sherlock had to swallow around the lump caught in his throat. “He wasn’t going to kill you” he finally whispered out, Moran’s threats swirling in his head as a nauseated feeling filled his gut just at the thought.

This time it was Johns turn to cock an eyebrow in question which Sherlock could clearly see as john was facing their only source of light. With a shaky voice and a determination to squash the queazy feeling currently rolling over him he relayed what Moran had told him about keeping John as a pet.

John sighed again, more resigned about this new information, rather than alarmed by it. “Either way, he thought he knew me. Thought I would rock up alone and defenceless. He thought he had me figured out. I am guessing he didn’t see me enter and because I had tucked the gun into the waistband of your trousers he didn’t see it and assumed I was unarmed. He was a fool. Intelligence never was his strong point. He was a hired thug - that was it. Someone crazy enough to do the shit that no one else wanted to even think about let alone carry out. He thought I would play his game. He was wrong. I thought I made it clear, 8 years ago, I don’t play that sort of game.”

“No, you don’t. You play your own game, Doctor Watson and it is marvellous.” In the dim light Sherlock could see the small smile twitch at John’s mouth. It wasn’t often that Sherlock threw the praise his way, despite how often John gave it to him.

“How did you get Mycroft. Moran was watching you, video feed, microphones, even your phone was tapped?” This was all information that Moran had gloated bout as he hit, bit, punched, kicked and cut Sherlock. He gave a detailed account of what John was doing at various times of the day, which meant that he had more cameras in the flat. He even told Sherlock about text messages and phone calls that had gone through Johns phone. Sherlock could only think of two ways he could have organised a way to gain this information and one of them was giving Moran way too much credit of intelligence. The only other answer involved someone who was able to get close to them and since Sherlock didn’t doubt anyone he considered a friend it only left one other option.

Mycroft.

Well, at least, one of Mycrofts men.

“Mycroft came to visit me after you were taken. He was quite informative. Mycorft knew the flat was being watched and bugged so he handed me a rather large report and indicated that I should read through it. It turns out that one of his men, Mason - one of the ones who had helped search for the initial cameras- was also working for Moran.” Sherlock nodded as his assumption was proven correct and he let John continue. “He knew about the cameras and the phone being tapped. He knew that the flat was being watched.

“He had decided that the best course of action was to act as if nothing had been discovered, at least until we knew what exactly the threat was towards you and what his demands were.”

“After I read the report Mycroft invited me to take a drive with him. He had something he needed to show me. It was a ruse to get me out of the flat so we could talk freely in a secure environment. Whilst we were driving Mycroft and I set up a system of sorts, assuming that Moran would try and get me to come alone. He was horribly predictable.”

“Dull” they both said and both of their faces set into familiar grins.

“If I stood at the left window and clenched my fist three times Moran had been in contact. If I put my hand in my pocket Mycroft needed to follow me. It was all picked up on the camera which is not so discreetly aimed at our flat and to anyone it would look like I was looking out the window, trying not to panic. There were other signals for other various scenarios but it really isn’t worth getting into.”

“Hmmm….we’ll see” Sherlock hummed absently. It actually wasn’t too bad of a system. Not horribly reliable, but not terribly unusable either. Of course, the downfall was that he would have to get in contact with Mycroft to be able to utilise it. It wasn’t worth hacking into the CCTV feed illegally. The last time he had done that a 'mysterious' virus had swept through his computer permanently destroying hundreds of hours of research notes. (It had taken months to get a hold of a two headed Xenopus Laevis. A complete freak of nature. Mutation working at its best. He still hadn’t found a replacement)

“…did you think you were doing?”

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts of two headed frogs and looked to John. Obviously he had asked Sherlock a question and judging by the look on his face the word _fuck_ had made an appearance at least twice in said question.

“I’m sorry?”

“You keep saying that, but you don’t seem to do anything about it.”

“No, I meant, Sorry as in what? It was a question not and atonement. I genuinely did not hear your question.”

An aggravated sigh left Johns throat as he ran his hand over his face. “Jesus fu….” John was cut off from his third _fuck_ in as many minutes by a portly nurse entering the room.

“Oh, you are awake” she stated in a thick Scottish accent as she turned on the overhead lamp above his bed. “Didn’t sleep long. How is the pain, dear?” Sherlock glared at the woman. (Mid-forties, married, at least two children, if not three, a medium sized dog, tinkers around with engines as a hobby). Only two people called him Dear. His mother and Mrs Hudson. And how did she think his pain was.

“I have had worse and survived. Are you here to take this out?” And he thrust his arm up waving the hand attached to the drip in front of her face.

Gently she pushed his hand down back onto the mattress. “Not quite dear” (again with that word….who did she think she was?) “You are still quite dehydrated. You can talk about the removal when your doctor comes back.” She looked down at the watch pinned to her shirt. “Probably in about two hours or so.”

“My doctor is here” He snapped indicatin towards John with the hand not encumbered with needles and tubes.

“No dear, you were quite out of it last night. Doctor Issah is your doctor. Would you like me to take a look at the cut on your head?”

John’s muted chuckle didn’t go unnoticed but Sherlock was too busy intensifying his glare at the little woman. “No, Judy” he sneered reading her name tag, “I do not want you to look at my head. I want you to take this out so I can go home”

“Sorry d…”

“And don’t call me dear” he snapped. “I don’t know you and…”

“All right love, just push that bell if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it then.” And then she turned and left as if they had had a rather pleasant interaction.

John didn’t even bother trying to muffle the laugh. “Gotta love mental health nurses” he said with a grin. Sherlock’s head whipped around.

“Mental Health?”

“Yeah, the hospital is completely full. No beds left in medical, surgical or geriatrics. Women’s and maternity were out of the question, so it was here or paediatrics. I figured these nurses here were harder to scare.”

“There is always the morgue” Sherlock sulked, scooting further down the bed and pulling the blanket up higher.

“With the fifty different types of bloody super bugs going around at the moment that is probably all full too.”

Sherlock let out a huff of frustration, half-hearted as it was, and leant back on the raised bed.

“Can I go home?” he asked, looking to John hopefully.

“Not my call, lo….Sherlock.” Silence.

“I don’t mind”

“You do, but I’ll see if I can’t sway the doctor to let you out anyway.”

“No, not about that. Of course I mind about that, I’ll just leave anyway, even if he says I should stay. No I meant I don’t mind if you say it.”

“Say wha…oh…right. Okay.”

The room was quiet. Sherlock fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket. His fingers stopped clumsily pulling at the thick cotton as Johns smaller hand covered his. It was the first time he had touched him since he had woken up.

“How _is_ the pain?” he asked, full of genuine care.

“I’ll be fine” Sherlock replied. “My leg aches and the cuts sting. My head throbs but these are the worst” he said stretching out the fingers, showing the bright white dressings over the tips of seven of his fingers.  He tried not to notice the wince he saw cross over John’s face, but it was impossible. Sherlock placed his other hand over Johns, completely covering it, the cannula pulling slightly.

“I am sorry John” he said quietly. “I never went out looking for Moran. I promise. I was just getting information. I couldn’t sit back and wait for Mycroft. He was taking too long. I was hoping to speed thing up so we could finally put this behind us. We have been fighting this for almost two years. I was just so tired of it all.”

“Well, you certainly sped things up” John replied with a wry smile.

Sherlock huffed out a little laugh. “You know how I hate waiting John. Patience is not one of my strengths.”

“Nope. Definitely not” the smaller man agreed, staring down at their covered hands.

Silence followed as Sherlock waited for the ‘ _I forgive you_ ’, but it wasn’t coming forth. Sherlock pushed down the small wave of panic that started to ebb through his mind at the thought that maybe he had cocked up well and truly this time.

Maybe there was no forgiving this time.

He had promised not to go off on his own anymore and what did he do. Went off on his own and left John. Two promises broken in less than a fortnight.

His fingers gripped tighter around Johns hand as he thought about John telling him that he had had enough and that he couldn’t stay with Sherlock anymore.

“Hey, Sherlock, it’s okay” he heared John say, but it sounded distant, like there was a pane of thick glass seperating them. “Deep breath, okay, innn and ouuut, inn…” Sherlock realised that he had started to hyperventilate and was actually shaking.

He looked to John, who was doing his very best to try and look calm and in control, but Sherlock could see the concern seeping out like water through tight cracks in his stoic surface. He focused on Johns voice and finally, after several minutes, got his breathing to match Johns’ calm words of “innn and ouuut.” John was now standing as close to the bed as possible, his right hand clutched in between both of Sherlock’s, his left hand rubbing slowly between his shoulder blades.

“You okay?” he asked once Sherlock seemed visibly calmer.

“I’m s…sorry” he stammered.

“It’s okay” John reassured. “You have been through a lot. Not just the past couple of days, but the past nearly two years. Even you are allowed to….”

“No John, I’m not sorry for that, for…this” he said, his hand finally letting go of Johns hand to gesture in front of himself, only to reattach itself three seconds later as the thought of letting John go became unreasonably unbearable. “I mean. I am sorry. For everything. For messing up again. I honestly didn’t mean to this time. I didn’t mean to leave, again. Just don’t...” he couldn’t bring himself to say the words _leave me_. If he didn’t say it then maybe it wouldn’t happen.

“Sherlock” John said carefully. “What do you think is happening here?”

Sherlock couldn’t look up. He didn’t want to see John’s face as he told him that he was only comforting him, because that was his job, but he would be leaving soon. “Do you honestly think…”

Sherlock swallowed around that lump that had made itself home in the centre of his throat again. Yes, he did think that John would say he would forgive him and would stay. It was what he needed.

“Do you really think that after all of this, after everything we have been through, that I would walk away now?

Sherlock stopped mid swallow and blinked once, twice, three times. “So you’re not angry.”

“I didn’t say that” but there was no heat behind the words. In fact it sounded like he was smiling. “I’m definitely angry.”

“But you forgive me?” It was a question because Sherlock still wasn’t sure of the answer.

“Sherlock” John sighed, a mixture between humour and determination. “There is nothing to forgive.” Now Sherlock did look up and there was nothing but honesty on John’s face.  “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just being you, in fact, you were quite restrained for you. I can’t be angry at you for behaving the way that you normally do.”

“You were when you found the pickled testicles in the freezer on Tuesday.”

A fond, but weary look be-felled Johns face as he said “Yeah, but I know that’s not going to change, and that is more frustration than anger anyway. And maybe a bit of hope that we can work out a system that will work for both of us, but I’m not going to hold my breath and that is fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine. I know what you are like and I still went into this, whatever it is, with you and I’m not about to change my mind because you acted like we all expected you to.”

“Am I that predictable?” Sherlock asked with slight contempt. How utterly pedestrian and normal.

John let out a small chuckle. “Only in that we expect you to do something utterly unexpected” he assured. The frown on Sherlock’s face lessened somewhat and they both fell back into a comfortable easy silence.

~o~

Six hours later they were home. Almost an hour after the nurse had predicted the doctor, who was not John, hurried in looking as if he wished the day was at an end rather than just beginning. Sherlock had not helped one little bit by refusing another bag of saline fluid to help combat his dehydration. The doctor was concerned that he had gone so long without any form of fluid or nourishment and added to the injuries Sherlock had obtained he had wanted to keep him in for another day of observation. Had John not stepped in when he had a full blown argument would have ensued resulting with Sherlock ripping out the drip that was already in and storming out in nothing but his hospital gown. Instead John promised to take him home, monitor him and make sure he rested and kept up with fluids. He also promised to bring him back should any complications occur. So, now, here they were with Sherlock sitting in his chair sulking. Sherlock had wanted to go to bed when he got home. John had agreed until he had found out that sleeping wasn’t on Sherlocks agenda and had then refused not wanting to aggravate any injuries and insisting that Sherlock needed to concentrate on healing, not wearing himself out. When Sherlock had gone to protest John had told it him that this was the perfect time to think about the consequences of running off alone. Sherlock was positive it wasn’t and stormed out (as well as an injured man with a cast on his leg can storm) to the living room and dropped into his chair.

Now he was sipping on a cup of tea and, begrudgingly, eating a piece of toast. He had wanted to take up Mrs Hudson’s offer of chocolate muffins but John had said that under no circumstances was he to end what was now a five day fast with something as rich as Mrs Hudson’s chocolate muffins. It was either toast or dry crackers.

Just as Sherlock thought that the day couldn’t get any worse the downstairs doorbell rang. After a few moments it was answered by their cheerful landlady soon followed by his brothers pretentious tone wafting up the stairs in a false friendly greeting. It was shortly followed by the familiar tread of his brothers footsteps, accompanied by the occasional tap of the tip of his ridiculous umbrella, as he made his way up the stairs to flat B.

“Mycroft” John greeted as his brother stepped through the door into their living room.

“Dr Watson” Mycroft greeted back formally with a nod in Johns direction. “Sherlock” and his eyes met Sherlocks. To the casual observer it would look like they were staring each other down, but Sherlock saw it for what it really was. His brother was there to make sure that he was fine despite the fact that John had called him, not even twenty minutes before they left the hospital, with an update on Sherlocks medical developments.

“Tea?” John asked from the kitchen and Sherlock turned his gaze from Mycroft and glared at John. When his brother answered in the affirmative and no one paid him any attention Sherlock crossed his arms and looked towards the fire place in what John called his _Sulk number 2_ position. Sherlock thought he had every right to sulk. His partner would not offer him sex but would offer his brother tea.

“So, brother” Mycroft drawled in that smarmy way that he had as he made himself comfortable in Johns chair. “How are you feeling?”

Drawing himself out of his sulk Sherlock turned his head and studied his brother more closely. The pinched look at the corner of his eyes. The barely concealed sneer. The barely noticeable rubbing of his thumb and index finger on his left hand. He had other places to be, other things to do. This trip to enquire about his wellbeing had been brought forward early, by force.

There was only one thing, short of the downfall of the free world, that could force Mycroft Holmes to do something he didn’t want to do, when he wanted to do it.

“How is Mother today?” he asked, ignoring the question posed to him.

Sherlock tried not to take too much pleasure in the forcibly controlled inhale his brother took before answering.

“Worried. You weren’t answering her phone calls. She wanted to know how you were. Thank you John” and his attention turned away from Sherlock, briefly, as the doctor placed a cup of tea down in front of him.

“What, you haven’t let your own mother know that you are alright?” Sherlock ignored the glare that John shot him and turned his attention back to his brother.

“She should never have been told that I was in hospital in the first place” he replied in an irritated, yet calm tone.

Mycroft sipped at his tea and placed the cup on the coffee table, both brothers ignoring John’s indignant cries of “But she’s your mother.”

“You know how she is Sherlock. She has a sixth sense for these things. She rang _me_ , since you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Yes, well. I was somewhat otherwise occupied.”

“Yes” Mycroft replied , looking a little bit too pleased with himself for Sherlocks liking. “Which is why I gave her John’s number.”

Sherlock barely registered the small chuckle coming from John as he felt himself blanch at his brothers words.

“Why would you do that?”

Mycroft finished his tea and stood up. “Sherlock, I am a very busy man and I simply do not have the time to deal with our mother’s worrying over you. It is bad enough when she rings up enquiring about my wellbeing.”

“But…but John doesn’t know how to deal with her. He hasn’t had years of evading her questions and learning how to lie to her. He will _tell her things_ , Mycroft.”

Sherlock didn’t know what frustrated him more. The fact that Mycroft seemed to appear indifferent or the fact that John’s chuckle had turned out into an outright laugh.

“I do apologise for my short visit” his brother lied, ignoring Sherlocks apparent displeasure, “But I must be going on my way. I’m scheduled for a meeting with Estonia’s defence minister in less than an hour, John, Brother” and he nodded at each of them as he turned to leave.

“What about Moran?” Sherlock asked, just as his brother reached the door. This, Sherlock noted, shot the amused grin off of John’s face.

“Who?” Mycroft responded, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Moran, Mycroft” Sherlock snapped, no longer in the mood for any of his brothers games. “What is happening with all of this … these last 22 months?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about” his brother replied, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“You know damn wel……” Just then it dawned on Sherlock that this affair was over. Moran never existed. There was no body. None of it ever happened as far as anyone else was concerned. It was all over.

Grabbing his umbrella from where it was leant against the doorframe Mycroft made to leave once more, before stopping and looking at Sherlock over his shoulder with a scalding look. “And really, Sherlock, you should know one is more likely to get mugged when walking around Walworth at night. Not the most sensible decision you have ever made.”

“No, I must have been distracted. Not a mistake I shall make again.”

“If only we could be certain that were true. Good day brother, Doctor Watson” with a tip of his head to each he headed out the door.

“Tell Gavin that he needs to be encouraging your diet not feeding you up. You’ve put on a pound and a half” Sherlock called as his brother reached the top step.

“Again, brother mine, I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about” but the small smirk on his lips spoke otherwise.

“Gavin?” John asked as the downstairs door could be heard closing.

“Hmm, yes, it seems Lestrade and my brother have shacked up.”

John choked on the mouthful of tea he was drinking. After he got himself under control he looked to Sherlock and said, “Well, then you might do well to remember his name is _Greg_ , not every other G name out there.”

~o~

Three days later Sherlock was feeling exceedingly frustrated. Despite feeling much better he and John still hadn’t had sex since he had returned from the hospital. They hadn’t even made it up to a heated snog on the couch, John telling him that he was happy with just cuddling until Sherlock was better.

This morning he had thought things were going to improve when he had woken John up by palming his already half hard erection. But apparently the universe was against him. Well, at least Scotland Yard homicide division was against him for at that moment, just as John was starting to reciprocate, Sherlock’s phone had gone off with a message from Lestrade.

Ten hours later three peoples murderer had been apprehended and John was sitting on the couch drinking his pots-case cup of tea and reaching for the remote for the telly, all thoughts of earlier that morning apparently forgotten. Well, they weren’t forgotten to Sherlock. Before John could grab the remote Sherlock dropped onto the couch next to John and swung around on the couch so he could lay with his head in John’s lap.

“Hey” John called out, only just saving his cup of tea from getting knocked out of his hand.

“Hair, John.” Sherlock commanded.

“God, you’re a pushy bastard” he said, almost fondly, but he placed his free hand on Sherlock’s scalp and carded his fingers through the dark curls anyway. Sherlock instantly relaxed, practically melting into the couch.

“John” he said, just above a whisper. “Take me to…”

“Woohoo boys” came Mrs Hudson’s overly cheerful voice up the stairs. Sherlock groaned and tried to roll over and bury his face in John’s stomach, hoping to avoid the onslaught of Mrs Hudson’s hospitality, (one day she might actually take notice of her own repeated declarations of ‘ _not your housekeeper_ ’), but his leg didn’t turn with him, being weighed down by the cast and he got stuck halfway.

“Just bringing you up some muffins, since you weren’t able to have any the other day” Mrs Hudson prattled as she transferred an assortment of baked goods from the tin her hand to a plate.

“I can’t express how happy I am that the both of you are home and safe” she babbled as she placed the plate on the coffee table and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the speech he knew was about to come. It was only Johns fingers gently carding through his hair that stopped him from telling their landlady to leave. NOW.

“You know, at my age, I am not sure how much more I can take, so maybe if you you could see about being a little bit more careful, that would be quite lovely” and she smiled down at the two of them patting John’s cheek in a motherly way. “Well, I should get going, leave you two be. I going to dinner with Mrs Turner” She chatted as she headed off towards the door. “You might want to eat up Sherlock, dear. You have had a bit of a rough time and you will need all the energy you can get now that you can both just focus on each other” and with a cheeky wink she left the flat, closing the door behind her.

“That is it” John said as Sherlock sat up and reached for the plate on the table before him. “We are getting this place soundproofed.”

Sherlock just shrugged as he devoured an apple and cinnamon muffin in two bites. He couldn’t give a flying fig about soundproofing. But Mrs Hudson was right though. He needed the extra energy. Shagging John could be quite exhausting, not that that was a bad thing, but if he could get in more than one round...

Sherlock shoved the last half of another muffin in his mouth. “I think I am energised enough” he said with a mouth full of raspberry and white chocolate.

John huffed out a small laugh. “Not really a turn on, love, with your mouth all stuffed.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly as he looked John in the eye. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

The humour on Johns face was replaced with something more animalistic. “Weren’t you asking me something before Mrs Hudson came up?”

Sherlock stretched and laid back down, resting his head back on Johns lap. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve just eaten and it has been a long day. I should really am a bit tired.” He smirked, finally able to turn the tables on John.

It didn’t quite have the begging and pleading effect that Sherlock was hoping for as the smaller man just shrugged before saying, “Well, then, you rest.” He said standing up, Sherlock’s head unexpectedly flopping back onto the couch cushion.  “I’m going to bed to do something with this erection I seem to have developed” and he made his way out of the living room, towards the bedroom. “Enjoy your nap” he called as he was halfway down the hallway.”

“Jawwwn” Sherlock growled, loud enough that John would have heard it and got up limping after him as quickly as possible.

By the time he reached the bedroom, _‘their bedroom_ ’ he thinks happily to himself, John is in nothing but his jeans, button and fly undone, revealing the red material of his pants underneath.

“Thought you were tired.” He said shucking his jeans and Sherlock saw that, yes, he did have an erection and it was quite lovely.

“Seems I have had a renewed bout of energy. Would be a shame to waste it on something as banal as napping” Sherlock answered as he too started to strip off.

John completed stripping by dropping his pants to the floor and stepping out of them, looking up at Sherlock with mock concern. “No, I think maybe you are right. You are still recovering and I wouldn’t want to….”

Johns speech was cut short as Sherlock lurched forward, tumbling them both onto the mattress as his mouth found Johns and he continued from where they had been disturbed earlier that morning.

With frantic hands Sherlock and John attempted to divest Sherlock of the rest of his clothes while still kissing and biting and licking at each others mouths but their attempts were stopped when his trousers and pants got caught on his cast.

With a frustrated growl Sherlock sat up and attempted to pull the trousers, which he had refused to let John cut earlier that morning to accommodate the extra layers of plaster, off but it just wasn’t happening fast enough. With a chuckle John placed his hand in the centre of Sherlocks chest and gently pushed him back. “Relax, love. I’ve got this” and without another word he scooted down to Sherlocks ankles and tugged at the material, pulling it free and chucking it somewhere over his shoulder as Sherlock reclined back on the pillows that had been propped up against the headboard.

“Now, where were we?” John asked, straddling Sherlocks thighs and leaning in so his lips hovered mere centimetres away from Sherlocks.

In response Sherlock rolled his hips, his groin rocking up into Johns and both men gasped as a shiver ran through their bodies.

“That’s right” John barely managed to get out and he leaned back in, resuming the kiss that had been placed on halt. Sherlocks hands snaked around Johns body, resting on his lower back and he pulled Johns smaller body as close as possible against his as he rolled his hips again, their erections pushing against one another as a “ _God, John, Yes_ ” left Sherlocks mouth.

Sherlock continued to grind his hips up against John as John thrust back down against him, the friction, glorious against his cock.

“John” Sherlock panted against the other mans neck as their hips worked together in a dance that left Sherlock wanting more. “ _More…I need you…more.”_

John tore himself away from Sherlock for as long as it took to get the lube out of the draw and then returned, clumsily smashing his lips against Sherlocks as he grappled with the lid on the tube in his hands.

Impatient as always, Sherlock pulled the tube out of Johns hands and with a much steadier grasp opened the lid and poured the liquid into John’s waiting hand.

“Now, John” Sherlock groaned his hips bucking up involuntarily.

Without any warning John wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlocks cock as he pushed the first finger into Sherlocks hole, eliciting a rather needy whine, a sound that Sherlock had never known he could make. As Johns’s finger, and then two fingers worked on opening Sherlock up his mouth inched further and further down, taking in more of his length as he sucked. Sherlock could feel his thighs tremble as he held himself taught, holding back from thrusting up into the tight warmth of John’s mouth. As John added a third finger he gripped the sheet below him with both hands to stop himself from grabbing the back of Johns head and forcing the man down to completely cover the aching length that was being slowly worked on at an almost tortuous pace, small moans and pants leaving his mouth as he kept control of himself.

Finally John removed his fingers and mouth from Sherlocks body and settled on his knees between Sherlocks thighs.

Pulling Sherlocks good leg over his shoulder, Sherlock felt the other man position himself and then slowly sink into him in one fluid motion. Sherlock arched up to meet him half way, shuddering as John filled him up and letting out a relieved sigh when he bottomed out.

Thankfully John had also apparently felt that eight days was too long as well and didn’t feel the need to draw their lovemaking out, as he was wont to do. Instead he started pumping his hips, thrusting into Sherlock, his pace getting faster and harder, his hand wrapping around Sherlock’s cock and moving in time with his hips.

Praise and expletives left Sherlocks mouth in quick succession, interspersed with moans and gasps as the man above him played his body better than he ever thought anyone could. The delectable pressure building up in his lower back, his groin and his abdomen as John moved harder and faster, telling Sherlock how wonderful he was. Eventually that pressure met in the centre of his being and Sherlock lost what little semblance he had on everything around him. Suddenly everything coalesced into a white hot heat that surged through his body as his orgasm was pulled from him and he gasped out John’s name as milky white come painted his abdomen and John’s hand.

“ _Fucking hell_ , Sherlock….” John panted as he continued to thrust into Sherlocks body. “…You are so fucking gorgeous.”

Sliding his leg off of John’s shoulder, Sherlock let out a low groan and tightened the muscles in his arse one last time, as the final tremors of his orgasm wracked his body, sending John over the edge as well. With something between a howl and a throaty groan John’s body stiffened above him as he shot his load into Sherlock, thrusting three more times milking his body of everything he had to give.

With shaky arms Sherlock reached up and grabbed Johns shoulders, pulling him down into a lazy kiss as their breathing calmed and their heartbeats slowed.

For what could have been an eternity they lay like that, lips casually gliding over lips, playful nips of teeth, sweat and semen cooling on their bodies as hands slowly drew circles on skin.

It was quiet and peaceful and just the two of them.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

“It’s over, John. It’s all finally over.” And as he said it he felt a considerable weight lift off of him as if the events of the past twenty-two months had washed away.

“I know love” John sighed into his shoulder, obviously too content to move, which was just fine by Sherlock.

“It’s just you and me, finally.”

John sighed again, his embrace tightening, just a fraction.

“Always, Sherlock. Forever.”

Sherlock let his hand gently trace lazy patterns on John’s thigh. He liked the sound of that, _forever_. He could most certainly live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Xenopus laevis aka the African Clawed Frog – ugly things…they give me the creeps!!


	18. 0 - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finalises the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the final chapter, where we finish the way we started.
> 
> It has been fun writing this, and a bit more challenging than usual.
> 
> I must send out a huge thank you to every one who left comments and kudos', as well as to all of you who subscribed to the story. It has been a wonderful response and I send out big hugs to you all.

Mycroft looked down at the file on his desk in front of him. It was quite thick. In fact, it took up five and a half folders. The top folder sat open, the report was typed on a generic brand paper from a local office supply shop, recycled. The font, black, 11 point, Calibri, 1.5 line spacing 2.5cm margins all the way around. In the top hand corner a photo of a man was paper clipped, (early forties, light brown hair, military cut, brown eyes) the word ELIMINATED stamped across it in bright red ink. Mycroft knew exactly what was contained in every single one of those folders. He had read every single report. In fact, one of them he had personally typed up.

“Sir?” the man across from him spoke, clearly having enough of the silence that had enveloped them, save the clicking of the grandfather clock in the corner, for the past eleven and a half minutes.

 

"I think it is safe to say that all major threats, from this particular case, has now been removed" Mycroft murmured, closing the folder in front of him.  

"Yes, Sir" Jenson replied.

"How many players are left?"  Mycroft didn't need to ask, he knew the answer, but sometimes having someone else confirm information was a bit of a comfort.

"Twenty-three, as far as we are aware, sir" the agent in front of him answered diligently.

Mycroft knew that there was a possibility that more members of such a large network could be uncovered as the others were eliminated but he was confident that none of them would be as big a threat than what they had already faced.

"And estimated time of complete dismantlement?" He asked.  This he didn't know.  He had been waiting on an update for the past twenty-four hours.

"Six months at most, sir.  That is taking into account the discovery of a ten percent increase in members, sir."

Mycroft nodded before getting up and making his way to the side cupboard where he poured both himself and his agent a glass of whiskey.

"And what has become of Mason?" He asked, placing both of the glasses on the desk before taking his seat again.

"Unfortunate accident while out on the field, sir.  Agent Sellers reports that Masons own gun misfired while they were tracking a lead.  Gut shot, sir.  He was dead before the ambulance arrived."

"How unfortunate" Mycroft drawled, none too sincerely.  It was one thing to work as a double agent, Mycroft himself had done that very same thing once upon a time.  It was another thing to work against Mycroft personally.  It was most definitely not going to end well when his family were involved.

The two sat in silence again as they sipped their whiskey, the grandfather clock ticking away in the background.

"Moran's body has been disposed of, sir" Jenson reported, placing his glass back on the desk. 

"Method?"

"Same as the other one, sir" Jenson confirmed.

Mycroft nodded approvingly.  There would be no trace of Moran, just like there would never be any trace of his boss.  Mycroft had a strong feeling that no one was going to miss either of them.

Mycroft inhaled slowly, relishing in the feeling of a job complete.

"Thank you, Jenson.  That will be all."  The man before him stood up and with nothing more than a nod of his head, turned and left the room and Mycroft was left alone.

Quietly he stood up, grabbing the folders off of the desk and walking over to a large cabinet on the far side of the room.  Opening the appropriate drawer he filed the folders away and pulled out another one, taking it back to his desk where he sat down and picked up his whiskey again.

For five minutes he sat there looking at the black folder.  He knew what was inside.  It was a report he had written up.  A report that no one but himself had read.  

Opening it up he picked up the first piece of paper.  This one was hand written in his neat elegant script.  It contained specific details of one of his teams.  How it had been utilised, where it could be utilised again in the future.  Specific notes on the dynamics of the interaction of the team members.  There were other folders with information of each team member individually, but he didn't need them.  All of the information he had on the individuals were stored in his own memory, more than what could ever be put on paper.

In the beginning it was a team he was loathe to put together, not seeing how they could be effective, despite each member bring their own strengths to the partnership.  He had foreseen complications and reasons for failure which is why he had split them up.

That was a mistake he would never make again.  

He placed the piece of paper on the desk and shuffled some of the other pieces of paper to the side.  Underneath the pile, right down the bottom, was a photo of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 


End file.
